


October to Hogmanay

by snorklepie



Series: Scotland [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Awkward First Times, Dancing, Holmes Family, Hurt/Comfort, John is doing his best, M/M, Poison, Scotland, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Past, The Edinburgh Problem, The formidable Antonellis, kiltlock, terrible twins, train shenannigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 127,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snorklepie/pseuds/snorklepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are we, now?” John mused aloud, once they were in a cab heading back to Baker street. It was a cool, damp afternoon and Sherlock was studying the passers-by with detached interest. He glanced over at John with a raised eyebrow, his fingers idly worrying at one of the buttons on his coat.</p><p>“Nothing seems quite right. What would you call me, if somebody asked?” John waved a hand vaguely at the space between them. “What do we call… this?”</p><p>Sherlock stared at him for quite a while, his brow furrowed. John began to feel a little self conscious. The taxi lurched as they turned a sharp corner, and he flung out his arm to steady himself. Sherlock caught his wrist, and held tight.</p><p>“Everything.” Sherlock said quietly, and after a moment he let go and resumed his study of the streets outside. John barely even heard the words, he said them so softly. “Everything. That’s what you are.”</p><p>John stared at Sherlock’s profile against the cab window and exhaled slowly. After a long moment, he reached out and touched Sherlock’s long fingers where they were fiddling with the button on his coat. The tall man didn’t look around again, but his fingers slowly unfurled before curling deliberately around John’s hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time, John had to admit, was a bit of a disaster. 

They had talked about it. He certainly had fantasised about it. He had planned for it. Prepared for it. 

But the thing was, it was still a first time. He had expected it to be like the way that he imagined it; that it would be tender and slow and sensual and really fucking arousing. And it was. But it also hurt, which he wasn’t quite as prepared for as he had thought. 

He had _known_ it would hurt a little. He did. And John was no stranger to pain. But it was a new kind of pain, one he hadn’t experienced before. 

(And yes, alright, it was a bit of a turn up for the books. John ‘Not Gay’ Watson, extremely naked, sporting a raging hard-on, one leg wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and the other propped over his shoulder. Very much willing to take it up the arse from a man he loved beyond reason.) 

Very willing indeed, until Sherlock had tentatively pushed a little deeper and John instinctively resisted; his body rebelling against the intrusion. 

Sherlock had taken one look at his tense face, the lip bitten in an attempt to keep from gasping; and had pulled away violently, his eyes wide. John did gasp then, his breath hissing out as his leg slipped from Sherlock’s shoulder to land clumsily on the bed.

“Oh god, John! John, John… John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock whispered, his hands convulsively clenching and unclenching at his sides. John could see the long elegant fingers trembling as they reached out to touch his hips then withdrawing again, as if Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to touch him. 

“Ah! Calm down, Sherlock. I’m fine.” He muttered, wincing as he sat up. “Although I wish you hadn’t whipped away like that. I think slower would definitely have been better in the circumstances.” 

“John-“ Sherlock whispered, his face tense. He kept running his eyes up and down John’s body, anywhere but his face. 

(And it’s not as if he can even _see_ where it hurts from that angle. Shit. Ah, Christ. That smarts a bit.)

John reached out and grabbed Sherlocks arm, and his heart sank a little as the detective instinctively flinched away. He sighed, and persevered; holding his hand out until Sherlock reluctantly laid his hand in Johns.

“Sherlock. Look at me, come on. I’m fine. Look at me, please? Sherlock!” 

Sherlock finally managed to tear his gaze away from the sheets, and John swallowed hard when he saw how the odd, pale eyes were too bright. 

“We just got a little ahead of ourselves, alright?” he said gently. “My bloody fault, really. I did tell you to hurry up.”

Sherlock merely stared at him, and John knew that he didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. 

“We’re still getting used to each other this way, okay? Darling idiot.” He smoothed his palm along the pale length of Sherlock’s thigh and sighed. “And it’s all completely new to me. I’m frankly amazed that everything’s gone so well until now, really. We were bound to trip up at some point.”

“I was bound to hurt you at some point.” Sherlock finally said, flatly. 

“Sherlock, I could give you a long fucking list of every time something went wrong in my bedroom. It happens. It happens a lot. Especially when two people are still getting to know each other and it’s all new. I’ll give you examples, if you like.”

“I swore to myself that I’d never, ever hurt you like that.” Sherlock muttered, viciously digging his thumbnail into the skin of his bare knee. John caught it with his other free hand and held tight until Sherlock stopped struggling.

“You would never hurt me like that.” John said quietly, after a moment. “You never could.”

The silence hung there, thick and heavy. They sat unmoving, Sherlock staring down at the crumpled blue sheets and John trailing soothing circles on Sherlock’s palms with his thumbs.

The bedroom began to feel a little chilly, naked as they were. John shivered slightly, determinedly ignoring the ache in his arse and the way a tear had persistently trailed down the line of Sherlock’s knife-edge cheekbone. He wasn’t going to call attention to it. 

“Come here, you.” He said eventually, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s stiff shoulders. Sherlock slowly reached around, engulfing John in his long arms and bringing his face to rest in the crook of John’s neck. 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock breathed into his skin. John swallowed hard and shook his head. He held on to the man in his arms tightly. 

“You don’t have to be sorry about this. It’s not-“ he broke off. (A big deal? To you, no. In his head? What the hell do you think he’s remembering right now? Of course it’s a fucking big deal.)

“It’s not a problem, and we’ll get past it.” He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck, which smelt of fresh, cooling sweat and sandalwood soap and home. “Come on, let’s get dressed and go for a walk. We’ll go to Borough market and eat xiolongbao and you can annoy the tourists with deductions. You know how that always cheers you up.”

***

Unfortunately, it didn’t look like there was going to be a second time. 

John had felt a slight twinge for no more than an hour or two after the first attempt, and was annoyed at himself for not coping better with the situation. 

(If only I could have kept it showing on my face. I’d have gotten used to it, probably. If only I’d stayed face down; he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell, would he? Oh, god. I bet this has put a bloody enormous spanner in the works, hasn’t it? What if he decides that he doesn’t want to sleep together anymore? What if he thinks it’s too complicated and-)

At this point, Sherlock had stopped walking. They were around half way across the Millennium bridge, heading towards the market. It was a chilly, damp afternoon and the light was already fading from the sky. London seemed noisy, jarringly modern and a little frenetic compared to the refined outskirts of Edinburgh. They had been walking for twenty minutes, close but silent, both lost in their own thoughts.

“What is it?” John asked, retracing the few steps he had taken before realising Sherlock was no longer at his side. The detective was staring into the greyish depths of the Thames, his knuckles white as he grasped the railing. He didn’t speak straight away, and John came to stand against his shoulder; leaning into his side. 

“I spend so much time wondering what it’s like inside your head, you know.” John remarked conversationally, gazing out over the river and darkening skyline. “I mean, I suppose nobody can ever understand what it’s like inside somebody else’s mind. The way their thoughts fit together. But you… I worry, a bit. I like to think that I understand a lot about you, but sometimes I reckon there’s whole _universes_ of stuff going on in your head that I can’t fathom.”

“Probably.” Sherlock said, a little grimly. John elbowed him gently. 

“So, sometimes I have to just think about what would be going through my head, if I were you. What I’d want to know, but maybe couldn’t bring myself to ask.” He reached out and covered Sherlock’s hand on the smooth metal railing. It was cold and dry, the knuckles prominent and slightly knobbly under his fingers. “And all I can say to you is that I’m really, honestly fine. It did hurt a bit, but that was because we sort of got ahead of ourselves. Jumped the gun, a bit. _Both_ of us. I think we were both kind of....er....over-eager. And I told you to get a move on. Because I wanted it so badly.” He felt his face flush in the cold air, and stared into the water below. He lowered his voice, leaning in a little closer. “Wanted you. It’s really bloody exciting, Sherlock – you have no idea. This is all so new to me and it’s sort of like discovering sex all over again… well. And the fact that it’s with _you_? That’s the best part of all. Because, as I keep bloody reminding you, I love you. I love your ridiculous, amazing mind. I love your face. I love your body. Christ, Sherlock – I-“ he trailed off, wishing Sherlock would just turn his head and look at him. He seemed frozen. “I’ll always want you. But if you decide that you don’t want that side of things, I’ll understand. I won’t walk away from you over this. I never would.”

“I can’t understand how you can just _say_ these things!” Sherlock snapped suddenly, finally meeting John’s eyes. “How does it work?”

“What do you mean?” John asked, after a few seconds bewilderment. 

“How can you just open your mouth and these words come out?” Sherlock said tersely. “I’ve just got so many things warring in my mind, I keep rearranging them and trying to decide the right order in which to say them and they keep getting muddled and disordered and then I can’t say them because the words just don’t work together, they don’t make _sense,_ John! And then you just open your mouth and you say those things and it’s honest and true and it’s beautiful and I hate that I can’t tell you what I need you to know!”

John opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Sherlock kept staring at him, his brow furrowed. In the dimming afternoon light he looked hawkish and beyond frustrated; his cheeks were pale and his hair blew messily across his face. 

John reached up and ran his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, inside the collar of his coat. His skin was cool under John’s fingers, and he pulled him down until their foreheads were pressed together. Sherlock didn’t resist, but his expression didn’t lighten. 

“How about this, then.” John said in a low voice. “I know that you love me. It took me long enough to realise it; but I know that, in my bones.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and shut his eyes. Eventually he nodded a little jerkily, and murmured: “Yes.”

“Do you still want to have sex with me?”

This time, the silence stretched on for considerably longer. John became aware that they were garnering some attention from passers-by, standing as close as they were. Some small part of him was faintly surprised by just how little he cared; pressed up against a man in public. 

“Yes.” Sherlock said, suddenly. “Yes, I do. But I don’t want to try that again.”

John’s heart sank a little, deeply relieved as he was. “Alright. We’ll leave it for now, eh?”

“I mean it, John.” Sherlock insisted, gripping his arm. “I don’t want to risk hurting you like that.”

His first instinct was to argue, to tell Sherlock that he was overreacting. To say that he didn’t care if it hurt a bit, if it meant that he got to have Sherlock inside him. But then, he wasn’t going to see it that way, was he? John might have some romantic notion about the act of penetration, that it had some special significance of trust and love in a relationship. But it wasn’t as if Sherlock had ever known it that way. He hadn’t ever understood sex in that context. No wonder he was shying away from it, if all he associated with it was discomfort and possession. 

“Then that’s sorted.” John said firmly. “That’s all I need to know, for now. Just out of interest, were you planning on getting around to kissing me any time soon?”

***

Things had been sort of alright after that.

Sherlock seemed much more relaxed, if still a little quiet as they continued on to the Borough market. Despite claiming that he wasn’t in the least hungry, he stole at least half of John’s cardboard tray of steaming dumplings and then complained that they were too hot. He infuriated a stall holder by remarking loudly upon the fact that the colour of the huge pan of paella he was stirring relied much more on tartrazine than the rare saffron listed on his sign. He foiled a pickpocket with a bored look on his face, and completely ignored the profuse thanks he received from a grateful German tourist. After half an hour or so he plucked at John’s sleeve and headed for the gate, not letting go of the fabric until they had cleared the crowds of the market.

That night they had gone to bed in Sherlock’s room, as they had done the night before following their return from Edinburgh. The deep blue sheets were still disordered and John retrieved one of the pillows that had been carelessly kicked onto the dark wooden floor. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock changed into a loose pair of grey pajama bottoms, dropping his clothes carelessly onto the floor. 

“You sure you’re alright with me sleeping down here?” John asked, hesitating before beginning to undress.

“I rather hoped we’d be doing more than _sleeping_ , my dear John.” Sherlock said quietly, switching off the lights and moving slowly through the shadows towards him. 

 

***

And it was frequently _glorious_ , it really was. Sherlock still littered the flat with terrible detritus from his experiments, didn’t sleep for days on end and was regularly snappish and irritable. He was still a caged tiger when cases were thin on the ground, and he was frequently unforgivably rude to all and sundry. 

John didn’t hesitate to shout at him, and more than once he needed to take long walks around Regents Park to clear his head and to stop himself _smacking_ Sherlock.

In short, it was life just as they liked it. There were chases through dark streets, and tedious stake outs followed by midnight take outs, and squabbling over who used the last of the tea bags. 

But there was also the experience of drifting awake at three in the morning, hearing Sherlock’s clothes dropping to the bedroom floor with a soft thump. Feeling his chilly limbs winding around John’s sleep warmed body, the line of his cheekbone pressed into his shoulder. The beat of the mans heart under John’s palm, the lazy wet kisses drifting down his collarbone. 

“Mmm, it’s only been three days since you last slept, darling idiot.” John murmured. “You’re slipping.”

“Shut up. Who said-“ a sharp hiss of breath as John’s lips found his nipple. “-anything about _sleeping?_ ”

Sherlock seemed to delight in studying John; his reactions to stimuli and how he could reduce him to a shivering, moaning wreck. He was content to spend entire afternoons exploring John’s body, tracing every freckle and scar, every line and curve. John was fairly sure that Sherlock was taking some kind of mental note of all of these things, had heard the man murmuring quietly to himself about the precise depth of John’s suprasternal notch and his varying reflex reactions, the difference of skin texture between his calves and forearms. 

It was… odd. And sort of romantic, or at least their kind of romantic. Sherlock didn’t remember John’s birthday, but he knew to the last minute the anniversary of their first meeting at Barts. 

John had never fancied himself as the kind of chap who would welcome flowers or poetry. But something in his heart melted a bit when he overheard Sherlock explaining in great detail to a determinedly straight-faced Mrs. Hudson about how she shouldn’t bring them fruit cake any more because John didn’t like sultanas, that what John _really_ liked best of all was coconut macaroons.

Sherlock was still frankly rubbish at talking about things. Following that afternoon on the Millennium bridge, John had suggested that he write down what he wanted to say. That it might be easier, that Sherlock could reorder his thoughts on paper and then just give them to John to read. 

He had assumed that Sherlock had decided not to hear this suggestion, as he hadn’t responded in any way and John hadn’t wanted to push the matter. But a week later, when he was cleaning out the ash grate in the fireplace he found some charred scraps of paper, criss-crossed with Sherlock’s dense hasty scrawl. He couldn’t make out many of the words on the blackened remnants, beyond: 

“-can’t know the depths to which-“ 

“-ind of recognition but that is obviously ludicrou-“ 

“-but not in a cannibalistic fashion, I assure-“

“-of telling you but I am inestimably glad that-“

“-you, John. With all my-“

John had hastily stolen this last scrap and resumed sweeping out the grate, hearing Sherlock’s feet bounding up the stairs. 

He later hid the ash-stained, blackened paper in his wallet, hoping against hope that it had originally said what he thought it did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, er. Smut. Loads of it! Enjoy :)

The first parcel arrived on a Tuesday, less than two weeks after Sherlock and John had returned to London. 

It was a dreary, grey day and they had been battered with intermittent icy downpours all day while trailing a suspect in a blackmail case across the dodgiest parts of the east end that John had ever seen. At one point he had been chased by an extremely large and irate bulldog, whose owner had not appreciated the fact that John had happened to catch his eye at a bus stop. The resultant argument and chase had not left him in a good mood at all, and his shoulder was aching from using it to break down the back door of a butchers shop in Spitalfields. And after all that, the man they had been chasing had disappeared into the rush-hour crowds emerging from Mile End underground station. The large man had managed to land a sly, sharp blow to Sherlock’s ribs that left him doubled over and winded, and after ten minutes of fruitless searching, even Sherlock had agreed to call it a day. He was in a filthy mood, and John knew better than to inquire about the stiff way he was holding himself as they took the tube back to Baker Street. 

The short walk back to the flat was gloomy and silent, and John shivered with each drop of rain that slithered down the back of his neck. Speedy’s had shut for the day, and as he waited for Sherlock to unlock the door John absently watched Mr. Chatterjee wearily mopping the floor of his darkened café. 

Sherlock paused, just inside the door. The downstairs hallway was dimly lit, as Mrs. Hudson had left for her sister's cottage in Devon earlier that day. John was left standing outside in the rain, and he crossly poked Sherlock between the shoulder blades to allow him inside. 

“Careful, John.” Sherlock said, raising a warning hand. “Look.”

John looked sharply around his shoulder, closing the door behind himself with one hand. There was a large rectangular box on the stairs, neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It looked innocuous enough, but living with Sherlock for this long had taught John to be wary of unexpected deliveries. His memory dredged up the unwelcome recollection of an envelope, filled with breadcrumbs and he sucked in his breath sharply. 

“What do you think it is? I get all my Amazon parcels sent to my work address now.” 

(This regrettable arrangement had begun when Mrs. Hudson had mistakenly opened a box intended for him that had held a large bottle of lubricant, some orange and bergamot scented massage oil and a few other little novelties that had piqued his interest during a slightly inebriated online shopping incident. The wink she had given him when apologising profusely and handing over the open parcel still curdled his blood when he recalled it.)

“Well whatever it is, it is definitely _not_ my order of skin samples from Belgium.” Sherlock said darkly, slowly making his way over to the box on the stairs. “String, John. Hardly anyone uses string on parcels any more; the post office doesn’t like it. Parcels containing explosives are often tied with string, as it reinforces the container. The act of untying it can lead to detonation, if it’s linked to a fuse.”

“Shit.” John muttered, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you tell where it’s from?”

“Not easily.” Sherlock murmured, craning his neck to read the address label and post mark without getting too close. “It’s from within the UK but the postmark is so smudged it’s barely legible. I don’t recognise the writing.” 

“Can you hear anything from it?” John asked nervously. “Ticking?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Bombs hardly ever tick nowadays. Analogue timers for explosives are completely redundant these days.” Sherlock said, absently scathing. 

“Oh, do forgive me.” John answered through his teeth. “I bow to your greater knowledge of bloody bombs! We both remember the last time, right? ‘Oh no, John I don’t know the first thing about how to defuse a ruddy great BOMB!’”

“Oh don’t be so melodramatic, John!” Sherlock sighed, edging closer to the package. “We don’t even know if it’s a bomb at all, do we?”

“Well, is it?”

Sherlock cautiously prodded the parcel with his outstretched finger. It slipped innocuously along the stair where it sat. He pushed it back along to the other side again, with a little more confidence. 

“Hmm. Don’t think so. The balance of weight seems to suggest several loose items, loosely padded in some way.”

“Oh. That’s good, then.” John said, relaxing slightly. “Hang on, could it be anthrax though?”

“Not sure yet. No trace of any substances on the paper.” Sherlock edged forward, and gently picked up the parcel. He sniffed fussily at the paper, which caused John to squeeze his eyes shut tightly in horror at the idea of what he might be inhaling. 

“Aha!” Sherlock said brightly. “I think I know _exactly_ what this is!”

“Is it likely to kill us any time soon?” John asked warily. 

“Highly unlikely.” Sherlock replied cheerfully. His mood seemed to have lifted dramatically at whatever explanation he had come up with. 

“Then give it over and lets go and get warmed up. No, shut up, I know your ribs hurt. You shouldn’t be carrying anything.” He tugged the box from Sherlock’s reluctant fingers and led the way upstairs. 

“There’s nothing wrong with my ribs at all!” Sherlock said crossly, following on his heels. “Give it back!”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Sherlock!” John pushed the door of 221B open with his elbow and dropped the parcel on the coffee table. “It’s right there! Have fun opening it. I’m going to go and take a shower.”

“But don’t you want to-“

“No!” John said, wriggling out of his jacket and letting it drop soddenly onto the kitchen floor. He unwound the dark blue cashmere scarf from around his neck a little more carefully, and hung it over the back of a chair. “Don’t care. I’m freezing, and sore and starving.”

Sherlock humphed in irritation, and turned back to the parcel; not even bothering to take off his dripping coat. John sighed, doubling back and easing it from his shoulders before hanging it up to dry. He impulsively pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s damp, wool scented neck before heading for the bathroom, deftly dodging Sherlock’s attempt to grab at his jumper. 

When he emerged from the bathroom some fifteen minutes later, wrapped in his dressing gown, he was pleased to see a newly lit fire in the grate. He was positively startled to see a mug of hot tea sitting on the small table next to his usual armchair, curls of steam wafting from the surface. 

Sherlock sat on the hearth rug, a small pleased grin on his face. He had shed his damp suit jacket and shoes, and his wet hair was drying into most amusing cowlicks in the heat from the fire. He was nibbling something in his left hand, which on closer inspection appeared to be a large slab of gingerbread.

“It was Miss Boorman’s writing on the parcel, that’s why I didn’t recognise it.” Sherlock said, with a slight shade of defensiveness. “Violet must have given the parcel to her to post. I recognised the scent of her hand cream from the string, though. She mustn’t have much faith in the Royal Mail, to have wrapped it so securely.”

“Well, Katy doesn’t seem to have much faith in anyone. And I’m quite sure that if she put her mind to it, she’d be more than capable of posting us a bomb.” John grinned, leaning forward and studying the contents of the parcel. “You’re in a whole world of trouble if you’ve eaten the entire cake, mind.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Violet cut it in half.” he said, in an injured tone. He held out a Tupperware box for John to see. There was a post-it note stuck to the lid that simply read: 

“You disgusting maggot, YOU WILL BLOODY WELL SHARE THIS WITH JOHN. I know your game.”

John grinned, feeling fond and pleased. When he opened the lid, a mouth-watering tang of crystallised ginger, candied orange peel and treacle drifted out and assailed his senses. 

The cake inside was dark, moist and sticky when he reached inside to break off a chunk. The taste made him close his eyes momentarily in bliss.

“What else was in there?” he mumbled, around his second mouthful. “Please tell me ‘more cake’”

“Home made tablet, pot of blackberry jam, bottle of whisky, a jumper for you, book for me, and a letter saying she’s about to leave for Italy for a month but will see us at Hilderbogie for Hogmanay.” Sherlock said, scanning a sheet of thick creamy writing paper covered in Violet’s lazy copperplate. “Apparently it’s white truffle season, which she never misses. Says she’s going to do some painting and work on her freckle collection. Sends her _love_ , as if that were somehow possible in a letter.”

John rolled his eyes, picking up the tissue wrapped bundle that presumably contained the aforementioned jumper. Sherlock was quietly beaming as he looked at the scattered items, and the sheer simple pleasure on the detectives face made John’s heart ache a little. 

“Did she send you parcels like this at school?” he asked, carefully unwrapping the dark green tissue. 

Sherlock nodded, absently breaking off another chunk of gingerbread. “Now and again. Mummy was away lecturing a lot of the time, and it wouldn’t have occurred to my father to send me parcels. She knew the food was horrible so she’d send me cakes like this. Records and books, too. Things she thought would interest me; odd feathers or fossils she picked up around the estate. Newspaper clippings. Once she sent me a preserving jar full of frogspawn from the pond in the next valley, but the stupid house master made me throw it away. She knitted me a scarf so I didn’t have to wear the awful uniform one. Mycroft, of course, sent me deeply tedious letters and even more tedious books about politics and that sort of thing,” he added darkly.

John suppressed a smile. As much as Sherlock might complain about his brother, he was quite sure that he would have been terribly hurt if Mycroft had stopped writing to him at school. 

“Violet knitted this?” John wondered, pulling out a bundle of the softest wool he had ever felt. He stroked it, and stroked it again. It was a deep teal green, with a simple rolled collar and three dark buttons at the neck. It was probably the most beautiful item of clothing he had ever, or was likely to own. Absurdly he felt a slight lump in his throat.

Sherlock leaned over, propping his elbow on John’s knee as he took a closer look. “Mm. Cashmere and merino wool. Antique horn buttons. She never knitted _me_ a jumper.” He added, a little accusingly.

John laughed, reaching out to run his fingers through Sherlock’s messy hair and remembered too late that he had been eating sticky gingerbread with that hand. “Do you think that this is her way of telling you that she approves of your young man?”

“Well it better not be that she’s _still_ trying to steal my blogger.” Sherlock muttered darkly, curling up against John’s bare shins. 

“Nobody is trying to steal your blogger, Sherlock.” he grinned, setting the jumper carefully aside. “And if they did, they wouldn’t have a hope.”

“Good.” Sherlock said haughtily, wrapping a large hand around John’s ankle possessively. He seemed to brighten suddenly. “Do you want to see the book she sent me?”

“Oh, er- sure. Okay.” John said, a little disappointed as Sherlock shuffled away again. He had been quite interested in where the detective’s hand was going to travel once it had left his ankle. 

Sherlock dug around in the detritus of wrapping paper, string and tissue paper before waving a book at John. John squinted in the low light from the fire and the distant lamp, then resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. 

_MEN WHO LOVE MEN: A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE HOMOEROTIC ARTS._

“It’s got really quite a lot of interesting material.” Sherlock said blithely, flicking through the pages. “I’ll have to add several things to the schedule. And it’s got very illuminating illustrations. I mean, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to try _that_ , with all the clothes pins. This thing with the peeled ginger root, though-“

“Oh, god.” John murmured weakly, beginning to sweat a little.

***

As it turned out, it was a very informative book indeed. Although Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to revise his earlier decision of not trying anal sex again, he seemed content with the idea of trying out several new ideas from the pages of The Book. 

John quite liked a lot of them. 

For obvious reasons, almost the entire chapter concerning bondage and S&M was quietly ruled out, without discussion on the matter. However, Sherlock didn’t let that stop him trying out sensation play that involved running different grades of silk over John’s skin, or stealing Mrs. Hudson’s feather duster to tickle him. (The latter had made him curl up in fits of giggles while sneezing vigorously, much to Sherlock’s annoyance and pleas to take the experiment seriously.)

Sherlock found out unexpectedly that his feet were a hitherto unknown erogenous zone. John had curiously dragged his fingernails gently along the soles of Sherlock’s bare feet while sucking him off in his armchair, and the resultant buck of Sherlock’s hips had given him a sore throat for two days. He couldn’t help grinning though. 

John finally got around to asking Sherlock if he’d try using the massage oil, and ended up falling asleep when Sherlock got a bit too interested in the freckle patterns on his shoulders. He woke up twelve hours later, feeling better rested than he had done in months and surrounded by sheets of paper covered with anatomical sketches, diagrams and equations calculating the distance between each mark on his skin and a detailed timeline showing the ages John had been when he had developed each mole. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but when John tracked him down at a crime scene in Hackney and sheepishly apologised, he was greeted with blank incomprehension. 

“But you liked it, didn’t you?” he asked, his face creasing alarmingly into worried frowns. 

“It was bloody amazing. I loved it. But, er- we didn’t take care of you…” John murmured, stepping a little closer. They were at the scene of a double homicide, so the timing wasn’t ideal; but Lestrade was busy staring at a corpse and nobody seemed to notice their exchange.

“But I liked it too.” Sherlock protested, looking a little confused. “I got to measure the difference of the range of motion in your scapulae; I’ve wanted to do that for ages!”

Lestrade glanced up at his slightly raised voice and looked in their direction quizzically. Apart from his text to John on the train back from Edinburgh, he had not referred to or acknowledged the change in their relationship in any way. Which was something of a relief to John, really. Sally Donovan on the other hand was looking at them from across the room in a worryingly speculative way, as if she was trying to work something out. John didn’t know if she had been privy to one of Sherlock’s mass texts; but he very much doubted that she hadn’t heard the news. Gossip travelled lightning fast around the Yard. He had already had a cringe-inducing moment a few days previously when Dimmock had cheerfully slapped him on the back and congratulated him on their new relationship. Apparently the young Inspector had won the NSY betting pool on when John and Sherlock would get together.

“Oh, er. Good. As long as you’re happy.” John muttered, blushing furiously and ignoring the knowing grin that was slowly spreading across Lestrade’s face. “Why didn’t you wake me up, though? I’d have come with you.”

“Oh, you looked like you needed the rest.” Sherlock said vaguely, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves and bending over the second corpse with considerable interest. “You’ll be glad of it later on.”

John took that to mean that he was going to be up all night doing research, or trailing a suspect. As it turned out, however, what Sherlock had in mind was considerably different. 

After twenty minutes of studying the molars and leg hair of the deceased, he had rolled his eyes theatrically; insulted Lestrade for calling him out for a case that was ‘patently no more than a three, _honestly,_ how do you manage to tie your shoelaces in the morning? It was the next-door neighbour’s gardener, bog standard poisoning, dispute over leaves coming over the back fence. Yes, you idiots; the fence – look at the deep green mould streaks on the side of his trousers. Traces of valerian and digitalis; you can tell from the traces in his teeth and the effect on his body hair. Abysmally stupid way to do it, really.’

And with that he had tugged impatiently at John’s sleeve and swept from the scene, not letting go of the fabric until they were both beyond the yellow tape. Lestrade had begun to protest, but it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it. Sally gave Sherlock her customary death-stare, but managed to restrain herself from commenting. Since Sherlock had resumed casework with NSY, Sally had refrained from calling him names, even when he pensively licked evidence in front of her or carelessly harangued witnesses. John couldn’t make up his mind whether this was because she had finally been warned sternly enough about it, or whether she felt some kind of residual guilt over the circumstances of his fall from grace. Either way, it made their professional life much more pleasant. John had snapped at her more than once previously for calling Sherlock a freak, but it somehow felt different to defend him now that they were… 

(What, exactly? Definitely not boyfriends, ugh. Sherlock’s right about that. Just seems weird once you’re on the wrong side of forty. Lovers? Ugh. Far too soppy. Couldn’t say it without cringing. Partners? We were already that, and flatmates too. Significant others?)

“What are we, now?” John mused aloud, once they were in a cab heading back to Baker street. It was a cool, damp afternoon and Sherlock was studying the passers-by with detached interest. He glanced over at John with a raised eyebrow, his fingers idly worrying at one of the buttons on his coat. 

“Nothing seems quite right. What would you call me, if somebody asked?” John waved a hand vaguely at the space between them. “What do we call… this?”

Sherlock stared at him for quite a while, his brow furrowed. John began to feel a little self conscious. The taxi lurched as they turned a sharp corner, and he flung out his arm to steady himself. Sherlock caught his wrist, and held tight. 

_“Everything.”_ Sherlock said quietly, and after a moment he let go and resumed his study of the streets outside. John barely even heard the words, he said them so softly. “Everything. That’s what you are.”

John stared at Sherlock’s profile against the cab window and exhaled slowly. After a long moment, he reached out and touched Sherlock’s long fingers where they were fiddling with the button on his coat. The tall man didn’t look around again, but his fingers slowly unfurled before curling deliberately around John’s hand. 

(How can he think that he’s no good at telling me the things I need to know?)

***

It took almost all of John’s paltry supply of self control to make it back to Baker Street without making a public spectacle of himself. For the remainder of the journey, he sat bolt upright; staring straight ahead and drumming his fingers on his knee. Sherlock’s hand rested firmly in his, propped casually on the middle seat. He seemed slightly surprised that they were still joined in this manner when the cab pulled up outside 221B, reluctantly untangling their fingers when John went to pay the cabbie. 

He seemed even more surprised when John wrapped his arms around him, the second the door closed behind them. After a moment he slowly pressed John up against the wall, kissing him back fiercely.

(How can it still feel like this? I’ve known him, loved him for years but oh _god_ , how can he make me feel like this? It makes no _sense_!)

Sherlock ran his tongue slowly across John’s, in teasing little flicks. His breath was hot and his chest hitched against John’s. His eyes were tightly closed, and he seemed unconscious of the way he was crowding John tightly against the wall; his hips pressing close. It had only been a minute or two since the door had closed behind them, and yet John could feel the hardness of Sherlock’s cock pressing insistently against his stomach. His own erection was straining in his jeans, the tight confines making his sensitive flesh ache pleasurably. 

“How do you do this to me, you ridiculous man?” he gasped, reaching into the shadows of Sherlocks coat and clumsily undoing the single button of his jacket. 

“Mm, you mean this?” Sherlock murmured in his ear, biting gently at his earlobe and cruelly running the tips of his fingers against the fly of John’s jeans. He didn’t squeeze or make any attempt to release his hardness and John moaned softly. 

“You’re such… a fucking… _tease_ , Sherlock. Damn well take me upstairs and let me do unspeakable things to you before I _cry_.”

Sherlock laughed quietly, and ran his tongue torturously slowly along the crease behind John’s left ear. “What sort of things would you like me to do to you, my dear John?” he whispered, his voice low and intimate. “I could stroke your penis right here in the hallway. You couldn’t make too much noise; I think Mrs. Hudson is at home. You’d have to stay so, so quiet for me. Or you could lie down on the stairs while I kneel between your thighs and fellate you, rolling your testicles between my fingers. You could come all over my face, but you’d have to stay quiet while I take you apart, bit by bit…”

“We are not…” John gasped sharply as Sherlock’s clever fingers drifted across his crotch again, casually teasing. “We are _not_ doing that again.”

“No? I rather enjoyed it.” Sherlock smiled impishly, pulling back a little. 

“I remember.” John swallowed hard, moving into Sherlock’s space again; his eyes trained on those full, damp lips. “Unfortunately, so does our landlady.”

Sherlock sighed theatrically, moving reluctantly towards the stairs. He casually slipped his coat and jacket from his shoulders before beginning his ascent, throwing a knowing grin at John as he went. John growled and swatted his behind, pushing him impatiently towards the door of their flat. 

“I think it’s time we resumed the schedule, you know.” Sherlock said meditatively as he unbuttoned his shirt, walking through the kitchen and into the bedroom. 

John froze, a little stunned. Sherlock turned, holding out his shirt cuff for him to undo; then stopped short at the look of nervous surprise and anticipation that was no doubt on John’s face. He smiled a little grimly and shook his head. 

“Not… not that, John. But I’ve added one or two things that I think you will probably enjoy.”

“Oh?” John said, swallowing hard and moving forward to slip the buttons carefully through the holes of Sherlock’s shirt cuffs. His heart was beating wildly; the slight dread and excitement about Sherlock trying to penetrate him again giving way to an odd mixture of disappointment, relief and curiosity. “What do you have in mind? It better not be anything on page 48, mind. We spoke about that, remember?”

Sherlock grinned, letting the deep blue silk shirt slip from his shoulders and puddle on the dark wooden floor. “I remember. Although I don’t think we should rule page 48 out _entirely_.”

“No. Absolutely not.” John said, with a reproving look. “Hard limit.”

“But I think you’d look quite fetching-“

“Finish that sentence at your peril, Sherlock.” John glared, tearing off his checked shirt before working impatiently at the buttons of his jeans. Sherlock shrugged disappointedly, slowly slipping his dark wool trousers down the length of his pale muscled thighs. 

John licked his lips, watching as more and more of the fair skin was uncovered. It seemed incredible that he got to see this side of Sherlock. That he alone got to see the look on Sherlock’s beautiful strange face as John ran his worn hands down the sleek lines of his body. 

There was still novelty here, the oddness of a male body under his fingertips and the faint sense of some taboo being broken. But mostly, John felt overwhelmed by the sheer _rightness_ of how it felt to share his body with Sherlock; as if sex somehow made more sense now. It was the absolute certainty that what they were doing was the product of… well. _Love._ That every frenzied or slow or clumsy or playful or ecstatic session they spent on Sherlock’s wide low bed was infused with the kind of love that he had never known before. He hadn’t really known that it existed. 

It was all so new, not because of anatomy; but because John had never felt as accepted or cherished as he did when Sherlock was exploring his body or gasping his name in the midst of orgasm. He didn’t feel like he needed to hide his scars or hold in his stomach or diplomatically hint about what he wanted to try in bed, worrying about causing offense or disgust. Or letting Sherlock know when he definitely _didn’t_ want something, either. (Page 48, for a start.)

It didn’t mean that things were plain sailing, but John had managed to stop worrying quite so much about Sherlock. For obvious and slightly heart breaking reasons, there were still limits in place and compromises that had to be made. But now that John knew more clearly where the lines were drawn, it was much easier to relax. He had stopped agonising over whether he was holding Sherlock too tightly; if his weight on Sherlock’s body was too much or if the gentle drag of his teeth over the pale skin would spook him. 

Because Sherlock didn’t want to be treated with kid gloves, he didn’t _want_ John to tiptoe around him. The first time John had lost control, pushing Sherlock down on the bed and kissing him until he was breathless, Sherlock had laughed aloud with delight. He had crushed John to his chest before giving him one of the most memorable blowjobs of his life. It was moments like that that made John think: _Yes. This life, this life above all other possible futures. This man._

Sherlock evidently had something specific in mind when he pushed John onto the bed, coming to straddle his lap. He stared down into John’s face with such a look of calculating mischief that he had to laugh, his hands coming to rest on Sherlocks sharp hip bones. 

“Oh, god. Should I be worried?” he breathed, rubbing the tip of his nose through Sherlock’s sparse chest hair and inhaling deeply.

“Mmm, I don’t think so. We’ve talked about this before, but never got round to it.” Sherlock answered, his fingernails scratching slowly through the hair at the nape of John’s neck. 

“We’ve talked about a lot of things, darling man.” John murmured, staring down at Sherlock’s swollen cock which was twitching against his stomach. His own was rather deliciously trapped between Sherlock’s spread thighs, pressed against the taut skin of his perineum and the lower swell of his arse. He couldn’t move much with Sherlock kneeling over him like this, but the detective rocked his hips a little, a small wicked grin on his face. The resultant friction made John’s breath catch in his throat. His hands tightened on Sherlock’s hips before slipping back to the firm swell of his buttocks.

“Back in Edinburgh. That morning in the bath. Do you remember?”

(Oh god. We talked about many things that morning in the bath, a lot of them awful. But before that bit, it was fucking amazing…)

“I said I’d be able to find your prostate with one finger, didn’t I?” John murmured, squeezing Sherlock’s arse gently. “Do you want me to do that, love?”

He felt Sherlock nodding against the top of his head and he smiled; his stomach tightening in anticipation and his cock twitching in the hot crevice between Sherlock’s thighs. 

“Alright. Get off me then and lie down. I want to do this properly.” he murmured, raising his gaze to Sherlock’s face which was flushed and a little shy when he returned John’s smile. John’s heart clenched at the expression and he reached up to cup Sherlock’s face. 

“I want you to let me know how it’s going though, ok? We’ve never done this before. You need to let me know if it doesn’t feel right.”

Sherlock sighed theatrically, slipping off John’s lap and grabbing a couple of pillows from the head of the bed. “As you are a medical professional, I would be most disappointed if you couldn’t find my prostate, John.”

“I don’t usually do exams quite like this, Sherlock. The BMA might be _slightly_ concerned.” 

Sherlock made an impatient noise and moved so that he knelt, facing away from John and placing the pillows in front of his knees. He slipped forwards to lie face down on the bed, letting the pillows prop his hips up. The curve of his arse seemed even more pronounced at this angle, his pale thighs spreading wantonly against the deep blue sheets. 

John swallowed hard. Up until this point, he had contented himself with groping Sherlock’s bum. Once or twice he had daringly curled his fingers into the warm crack while he had sucked Sherlock off; but he had never gotten around to properly exploring that narrow dark space until now. His cock throbbed, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his chest. 

(Oh, god. That arse. This shouldn’t be so exciting, should it? Oh, god, I’m going to sink my finger into him. What sort of noise will he make when I touch him there?)

“I can feel myself aging, John.” Sherlock murmured, wriggling restlessly. “If you’ve changed your mind…?”

“No!” John almost shouted, practically lunging across the bed. He could feel Sherlock’s body shaking as he laughed into the sheets, and then the slight tremor as John’s hands skated across the smooth expanse of skin on the backs of his thighs. When John pushed Sherlock’s legs gently apart and came to lie between his thighs, the man sighed deeply and buried his face in the sheets. His muscles were tense under John’s fingers, and he could almost feel the excitement and tension rolling from his body. 

With Sherlock spread wide in front of him, John could see his balls pressed against the pillows beneath him, his hard cock buried in the soft cotton. His buttocks were tense and clenched slightly as John gently smoothed his hands across the flesh. 

“You need to relax for me, Sherlock.” he murmured, moving forward and dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s left cheek. He heard the man release a long, shaky breath and watched him drop his face into the crook of his out-flung arm. John slowly pushed his buttocks apart and looked down at the tight knot of flesh between them, surrounded by a light dusting of dark hair. Sherlock moaned quietly into his arm, squirming against the pillows in a helpless reaction to being exposed and displayed. John took a deep breath and lowered his face, edging a little lower so that he could place the tip of his tongue just behind Sherlock’s balls before gently running it along his perineum and up the length of his crack. He felt the change in skin texture, the smooth crease leading to the tight pucker of Sherlock's hole against the flat of his tongue. Sherlock was rigid beneath him, and after a few more experimental passes of his tongue, John raised himself on one elbow.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to remember to breathe. I’m not going to keep doing this if you’re not going to breathe.” he said, rather breathless himself. Sherlock let out a long rasping breath, and sagged a little onto the sheets. He gasped quietly into the crook of his arm, and John reached out to rub his back soothingly.

“Oh, god. John! John, _please_ keep doing that.” Sherlock begged, his voice harsh and ruined. “Please. It’s… _exquisite_. I swear I’ll remember, I will. Please!” 

“Will you eat dinner tonight?” John grinned, trailing his finger in languid torturous circles around Sherlock’s rim. The dark curly head nodded frantically into the sheets. “Will you take out the bins?” 

Sherlock turned his head so that he could glower from under the tangle of his wildly disordered hair. “I will fucking arrange _world peace,_ John. _Get back to it!_ ”

“Ooh, I made Sherlock Holmes _swear_ ” John grinned, and bent to flick his tongue rapidly against the tight knot of flesh. 

This wasn’t new to John, not really. He’d done this to a couple of his more adventurous ex-girlfriends and he certainly hadn’t minded. But there was something different in doing it to Sherlock. Perhaps it was knowing that no one had ever done this for him before, and the way his body was responding to every touch made the blood sing in John’s veins. Sherlock’s spine was undulating slowly, his long toes curling and knotting in the sheets. Once John’s tongue resumed its trail around his opening he let out a long moan that sounded almost anguished with arousal. 

He grasped Sherlock’s buttocks and spread him even wider, running the flat of his tongue along the moistened crack before dipping down to suck at his balls for a moment or two. Sherlock was clearly fighting the urge to rut against the pillows beneath him; and John grasped his hips teasingly. 

“Not so fast, eh?” he tugged at his hips a little until Sherlock raised them from the pillows. He gently grasped Sherlock’s thick flushed cock and pushed it down so that he could reach it from where he lay, pointed down between the long pale thighs. Sherlock gasped when John ran his tongue along the side of his cock, tasting the salt of the pre come that was leaking steadily from the tip. 

“Oh, please, John. Please go back-“ Sherlock said in a low, strangled voice. 

“Hmm? You usually can’t get enough of my mouth on your cock, though…” John laughed a little, running his fingers along the soft exposed skin of Sherlock’s perineum and pressing gently. Sherlock growled and thrashed a little. “Oh, if you insist…”

This time, John focussed on the tight bud of flesh, sucking and licking insistently as Sherlock quivered and moaned beneath him. They were both panting and glazed with sweat, and John buried his face in Sherlock’s arse, curiously tasting the clean musk with his probing tongue. Again, it was different than the taste of a woman but he found that he didn’t mind at all. 

As Sherlock slowly relaxed enough for him to press the tip of his tongue inside his rim, John pressed his thumbs on either side of the tight hole. He gently pulled a little, encouraging Sherlock to allow him to slip his tongue deeper into the slick ring of quivering muscle. Sherlock’s hole gradually relaxed some more, although the man was by now sobbing and moaning into the sheets; his back arching helplessly as John worked at his arse.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to let me know if you’re ok.” John murmured, taking a break to relax his jaw. Sherlock seemed incapable of speech, and he fixed John with a glassy pale stare from over his shoulder. His face was flushed and drenched with sweat. “Squeeze my hand if you’re ok. If it’s too much I’ll take a break or stop-“

The resultant crushing grip on John’s fingers almost made him yelp. “Fine! Good! Christ. Do you want me to finger you?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock nodded furiously, closing his eyes and dropping his head heavily back into the crook of his arm.

John smoothed his hand across the small of Sherlock’s back soothingly, feeling the muscles tight as a bow under his hand. He leaned away briefly, scrabbling over the side of the bed to find the bottle of lubricant that had been abandoned there the night before. He poured a generous amount into the palm of his hand, letting it warm a little before trailing his fingertips through the clear viscous puddle. Sherlock jumped a little when he felt John smoothing it against his arse, his rim tightening a little in response to the new sensation. John licked at him again coaxingly, feeling the muscles slowly relax again against his lips.

John’s own erection had waned as he had spent so long concentrating on Sherlock. But as he gently slipped the tip of his index finger inside the tight hole he felt the blood rushing forcefully back to his groin, so fast that he felt almost dizzy. The sight of his finger slipping gently inside Sherlock was filthy, erotic, beautiful and he moaned silently at how tightly the muscle clenched around him. 

(Oh, god. What if it was my cock? What would that be like, this tight wet heat around my cock? Or him feeling this, pushing inside me?)

“Deeper?” he whispered, pulsing his finger gently at Sherlock’s opening. “Want me to find it?”

He took Sherlock’s strangled noise as a yes, and slowly pressed a little deeper. It was so hot inside Sherlock, the tight rings of muscle gradually allowing him entrance. He dabbed some more lube on the loosened pink hole, relishing the slick way his finger pushed deep inside. Once he was sure that Sherlock had relaxed sufficiently, he sank his index finger as deeply as he could inside his arse. After a moment or two of slow probing (oh god, so tightslickhotwethot) he felt the gland under his fingertip. Sherlock clenched around him and wailed quietly into his forearm. He experimented with stroking the smooth nub, trailing the tip of his finger around the edge. Sherlock’s hands clenched the sheets convulsively, his breath hitching. When John kneaded a little more firmly, Sherlock shouted aloud; his hips bucking sharply. 

“Sorry, sorry.” John murmured, pulling back a little. “I think that was too much, hmm?”

He resumed his gentle stroking, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh apologetically. The man was trembling and glazed with sweat, and the incoherent sounds of desire he was making seemed almost pained. 

John slipped a little lower, and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s neglected cock which was twitching and flushed. The sheet beneath was spotted with dewy moisture. When his lips reached the glans, Sherlock gave a hoarse shout and his body bowed; hot wetness spurting across John’s face as he came. John slipped the tip of his finger across Sherlock’s prostate gently until the trembling man made a slight noise of protest, his breath hissing softly between his teeth.

“Good?” John laughed quietly, feeling oddly exhilarated at the sight of Sherlock so undone. He clambered over Sherlock’s outstretched thigh and stretched out next to him on the bed, pressing a kiss into the damp curls on the back of his head. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, but he managed to nod weakly. 

“I seem to recall a lot of big talk earlier, but something tells me I’m not going to get any help with this right now...” John slid his hand down to his cock, which was still ridiculously, painfully erect. He laughed a little, then groaned as he pulled at the foreskin. Sherlock cracked one eye open and watched languidly as John stroked himself, the motions starting slow then irresistibly speeding up. He had already been close just from the experience of pleasuring Sherlock; the sight of the man post-coital, spread out next to him and deliciously trembling with aftershocks nearly drove him right over the edge. 

Sherlock reached out one unsteady hand and stroked the length of John’s thigh, his eyes never leaving the darkly flushed cock pushing through John’s fist. After a moment he slowly, clumsily brushed the tips of his fingers across John’s aching balls. 

The orgasm took John by surprise, sharp tingles rushing to the base of his spine. The sudden tightness of his balls made him bite down savagely on his lower lip. The come flowed messily over his knuckles and he sighed deeply, sliding his sticky hand into Sherlock’s outstretched fingers. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes, flopping back onto the crumpled sheets. 

Sherlock heaved himself up onto his elbows with what seemed a massive effort, and shuffled the now disgraceful pillows onto the floor. Without further ado he collapsed across John’s chest and buried his damp face in his neck. 

“Next time. Lots and lots of help. Promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

A letter arrived by special delivery on Boxing day, which John took from the postman in a sleep-deprived haze. 

The previous four days had been spent chasing members of a French kidnapping syndicate around Brighton, and Sherlock and John had only fallen into bed at 11pm on Christmas day. Giddy and woozy in equal measure, Sherlock had insisted that they made it home to Baker Street rather than remaining in Brighton.

Their first Christmas together. 

Never mind that they had spent hours glaring at Ordnance Survey maps of Brighton, trying to find the location of a disused furriery where a wealthy financier’s husband was being held captive. There had been no Christmas dinner or exchange of gifts, just a brief and exhilarating hostage situation that culminated in Sherlock disarming and rather too enthusiastically punching a large man who had had the nerve to point a gun at John. 

The unlucky man tied to the chair had embraced John repeatedly and embarrassingly once he was freed, promising him anything he liked in return for his rescue. When the offers of recompense had begun to include marriage to his prettiest sister and cottages in the south of France, Sherlock rolled his eyes and towed a stammering and feebly protesting John away.

It was only after an hour on a chilly train and an extortionate cab ride later, when John had groggily closed the door of the flat behind them, he realised that Sherlock had wanted to be home for Christmas. Home for Christmas, with John. 

And it somehow felt like Christmas more than ever before when John watched Sherlock sleepily kicking off his shoes and collapsing into bed beside him; taking time only to pull one of John’s arms around his chest before drifting off. He hadn’t even bothered undressing beyond removing his coat and suit jacket. 221B was still, warm and inexpressibly comforting; sleet pattered quietly against the windowpane. The only light came through the half-open bedroom door, a dim flicker from the fairy lights John had strung haphazardly across the mirror in the sitting room a few days previously. Sherlock was already breathing deeply, the tired lines of his pale face smoothing as he slipped further into sleep.

For some reason, that indescribable blossoming feeling that he only dimly remembered from his childhood Christmases quietly surged through John’s heart. 

“Happy Christmas, ridiculous darling man.” John murmured into the back of the sleeping detectives’ neck, and slept.

***

The letter was on thick cream vellum. John turned it over in his fingers, yawning, then smiled as he read the address which was scrawled in vehement purple copperplate. He shuffled back up the chilly stairs and flicked the switch on the kettle before heading back to bed. 

Sherlock was a large, silent mass under the duvet; only the messy curls at the top of his head were visible under the edge of the grey cotton. John hauled on a corner of the cover in faint irritation; whenever he left Sherlock alone in bed, the detective took this as an open invitation to steal any and all bedclothes and pillows for his sole personal use. John had begun to suspect that this behaviour was some kind of revenge for his having the nerve to get out of bed.

There was a disgruntled grunt from under the top sheet, followed by a lengthy yawn. “Tea?”

“In a minute, you lazy git.” John said, tugging insistently until Sherlock grudgingly conceded him a meagre third of the duvet. He pressed his bare cold toes under the hems of Sherlock’s crumpled trousers and into his calves until he hissed and reluctantly nudged back one of the four pillows. “We’ve got a letter.”

“I cannot be expected to read letters before I have tea.” Sherlock muttered sulkily, and wriggled until he was satisfactorily curled with his back against John’s chest. “Surely even you must realise that.” 

“It’s addressed to “the revolting blisters who reside at 221B Baker Street”, open brackets “God help their landlady” close brackets.” John read, tucking his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder and holding the envelope in front of the detective’s face so that he could read it.

“Mmph! Oh, alright then.” Sherlock said, managing to sound both pleased and put-upon at once. He grabbed the envelope and ripped it open carelessly. He cleared his throat and began to read the densely covered sheet of paper aloud in a startling approximation of Violet’s wry lilt.

> “Darling blots, 
> 
> Hope you’re enjoying the horrors of the festive season down in that cesspit of humanity.
> 
> Arrived in Hilderbogie this morning after a glorious stint in Marrakesh, expecting to find nothing more exciting than the greenish faces of the staff in the aftermath of the estate Christmas party. 
> 
> Sensation abounds!
> 
> Have instead returned to find the village in uproar – Mrs. Duncan (dangerously pious vicars wife) collapsed on Christmas eve, followed in no short order by Mr. Antonelli (darling grocer), Miss Argyle (utterly despotic schoolteacher) and the local plod PC Dalziell (bland as rice pudding and a face to match, but I suspect him of fiddling the tombola at the village fete last summer).
> 
> Thankfully, none of them have kicked the bucket, although it was a close thing with Mrs. Duncan. Apparently she had sat down with her evening G&T and some needlepoint on the theme of the martyrdom of St. Agnes, and less than ten minutes later Reverend Duncan found her on the floor.
> 
> Of course, it was bloody poison – the rozzers have traced it to the unfortunate Mr. Antonelli’s shop and his supply of tonic water. The poor man is in shreds, and the suspicions of the parish are doing him no good at all. He’s still in hospital in Aberdeen, with the rest of the victims. I’ve already had three of his seven daughters weeping all over me this morning. I’m still wiping the mucous off the shoulder of my new embroidered vicuna coat, which is simply too vexing for words.
> 
> Need I spell it out?
> 
> I know you intended arriving on the 30th, but for the love of god won’t you come early and help out a bit?
> 
> The snow began in earnest this afternoon, so be prepared. Bring boots, jumpers, gloves, warm coats, balaclavas, snow shoes, crampons, hot water bottles, a team of huskies and copious quantities of uncontaminated tonic water. Let me know what train you’re on and I’ll send Mr. Brodie to fetch you.
> 
> Convulsing with anticipation at the thought of seeing your odious little faces again!
> 
> Much love to you both (and a big wet kiss especially for John)
> 
> Vi
> 
> PS Supplies of Fortnum and Mason rose champagne truffles and Queen Anne tea are running dangerously low. I’ll make the pair of you sleep in Benjy’s cat basket if you have the gall to show up empty-handed. V.”

 

Sherlock dropped the sheet of paper over the edge of the bed and wriggled round to face John, his eyes gleaming. 

“Oh, hell. Alright.” John said, powerless in the face of Sherlock’s hopeful expression. “She better not be serious about the crampons, though.”

“Mmph.” Sherlock wound his long arms around John’s chilly torso and grimaced slightly. “You’ve evidently never been to the Highlands in winter.”

“A desolate icy tundra as well as a hotbed of poisoners then?”

“Intriguing. I always told you that the countryside was a sinister place, my dear John.” Sherlock said, with considerable satisfaction. His long fingers began to absently inch slowly up the doctors spine, delicately tracing each vertebrae. “Tight-knit communities filled with malicious gossip. Blood feuds and grudges that fester and build over generations. Suspicious hunting accidents. ”

“And a belated happy Christmas to you, too.” John grinned. 

 

***

Entirely unsurprisingly, John ended up making the trip to Fortnum and Mason to buy the chocolates and tea for Violet. Sherlock had mysteriously vanished at the first mention of shopping, disappearing out the door of 221B in a brisk swirl of coat. He vaguely muttered something about some samples he had to return to Barts before their departure that afternoon, and John had contented himself with chucking a satsuma at Sherlock’s head on his way down the stairs.

The tube was uncharacteristically quiet as John made his way to Piccadilly, with most people still recovering from Christmas day at home. The big department store sales wouldn’t start for another day or two, for which he was profoundly grateful – he found shopping a trial at the best of times even without being elbowed by fellow customers ready to wrestle over bargains. 

London was chilly and dry, the gentle sleet of the night melted into nothing hours previously. John dug his cold hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as he emerged from the tube station, and made his way briskly towards the elegant green arched entrance to the shop. 

Fortnum and Mason was calm and warm, and although John resolutely maintained that it was for posh people and tourists he rather enjoyed pottering around the opulent food hall. He absently nibbled on slices of candied kiwi fruit and sampled delicate brandy snaps as he waited for his order of truffles to be boxed and tied with a ribbon. He added another box of peppermint creams for Sherlock, before heading for the tea. He was trying to remember whether Violet had wanted Queen Anne or Lady Grey, (and whether it really made a difference) when he was startled by a familiar voice from behind him.

“Doctor Watson, what a surprise!” 

(Oh. Great.)

He turned to find the slim elegant figure of Patrick Singh at the end of the display, a polite smile on his charming features. 

John attempted to rearrange his own face into some semblance of a smile. “Patrick! Hello. Nice, er, to see you again. It’s been a while.”

(Don’t be a dick. You know he’s not _that_ bad. Just because he took a shine to Sherlock does not mean he’s a complete git.)

Patrick was beautifully dressed for the cold, in a long grey overcoat with a light blue cashmere scarf loosely looped around his neck. It accentuated the golden tone of his skin. 

(Flash git. I bet he spent _ages_ picking it out.) His long dark (stupid, girly) hair was hanging in heavy waves over one shoulder, looking artfully tousled. He was carrying a large blue cake box in one hand, tied with an extravagant black velvet ribbon. 

“Yes, our time in Edinburgh certainly seems a long time ago now.” Patrick smiled, coming a little closer and resting the box on the edge of a shelf. “I do hope that you and the younger Mr. Holmes have had a pleasant Christmas?”

“Oh, um.” John frowned slightly, recalling the events of the day before. “It wasn’t what you might call a traditional sort of Christmas, but we liked it.” He remembered how Sherlock had looked falling asleep the night before, and felt his mouth suddenly curve into a much more natural smile. Patrick raised an eyebrow, but evidently chose not to pursue that particular line of enquiry. 

(Just as well, considering what we got up to later.)

It suddenly struck John that Patrick, despite his usual handsome and polished demeanour, looked a little tense around the eyes and perhaps a little thinner than he had been a few months ago. 

“And how about you?” he asked tentatively. “Did you enjoy the holidays?”

Patrick shrugged in an off-hand sort of manner. “Oh, in a quiet way. I went for a drive down to Dorset and had a rather bracing walk on the beach at Lyme Regis. I managed to get in a little sketching, too. It’s rather lovely down there in Winter, almost entirely deserted.”

John smiled awkwardly, and then decided to bite the bullet. “So, er… I haven’t seen much of Mycroft recently.” Patrick’s face was carefully blank. “Been in touch with him at all?”

“Oh, I see him from time to time.” Patrick said in what seemed a determinedly casual manner. “He is a busy man, as you must know.”

(Cake box. Aha.)

And yet… when John had said the name, a faint line had pinched across Patrick’s brow and his mouth seemed to harden slightly. Patrick was so carefully opaque most of the time, it was hard to tell. But John could have sworn that there was something like _hurt_ in that flicker of expression. 

“Yes, he is. Definitely.” he agreed, a little too hastily. “It’s over a month since we saw him, and even then it was just for a minute or two when he was arranging our bail.”

Patrick looked slightly concerned and John hastened to explain: “Complete misunderstanding. Sherlock happened to be momentarily in possession of a dog, well it was a fancy sort of dog. Priceless in fact, apparently. We were trying to get it back to its owner at the time, but the dog-napper who had stolen it managed to persuade the police that we were the ones trying to steal it.” John rambled to a halt, and added a little lamely. “Quite a nice dog, really. Can’t remember the breed. Egyptian, with big tufty ears. Do you like dogs?”

“I’m afraid not. They make me sneeze.” Patrick said, looking more than a little bemused. 

(But at least he doesn’t have that look on his face any more.)

John turned back to the display of tea and gestured vaguely. “I’m trying to remember the sort of tea Violet likes. Sherlock and I are going to her place in Aberdeenshire for New Year and she asked me to pick some up for her.”

“Ah. Let me help you then,” Patrick smiled, and picked up a large square tin of loose Queen Anne tea. “This is her favourite. I do hope dear Violet is well; I confess I rather miss her company at times.”

(I’ll bet you do…) 

John smiled cheerfully and took the tin from him, trying to suppress the memory of Violet’s grinning face as she confided in him about some of Patrick’s particular _preferences_. 

“She actually invited me for Hogmanay as well, so that we could work on some landscapes but I sadly wasn’t able to accept. I thought at the time I was going to be elsewhere, but now… Well. I’m not entirely sure anymore. But it seems terribly rude to accept an invitation with reservations.”

“Oh, I doubt she’d mind.” John said distractedly, shifting his heavy basket to his other hand before inwardly wincing. 

(Do you _really_ want him in the same house as Sherlock again?)

“But there does seem to be some trouble in the village.” he added hastily. “We’re taking the sleeper tonight to see if we can help out. And Vi did say that it’s going to be incredibly cold up there.”

“Ah, Scotland.” Patrick mused reminiscently. “A land of chills, shifting light and changing skies.”

“Yes.” John said, rather at a loss over how to respond to this. “Thanks so much for the help with the tea, Patrick. I’m sorry but I must be off; I’ve still got to pack and I’m fairly sure we don’t have any, um… balaclavas.”

“Yes, I must go too.” Patrick shook John’s proffered hand politely before picking up his cake box again. “I might have a visitor this afternoon. Do give my regards to Mr. Holmes, won’t you?”

And with that, he was gone; tossing the end of his scarf deftly over his shoulder as he went. John exhaled and shook his head quietly as he went to pay for his shopping; a little ashamed at the relief he felt that the conversation was over.

He _knew_ that Patrick wasn’t an enemy. The man was charming, intelligent and was endlessly polite. He seemed genuinely fond of Violet. And yes, although he _had_ been rather taken with Sherlock he had carefully asked John if it was acceptable for him to make a move. John had nearly bitten his head off at that point, and yet Patrick had never appeared to hold the slightest grudge against him for it. He just always felt rather wrong-footed around the beautiful young man, always a bit shabby and ordinary and well… perhaps maybe just the tiniest bit… _common._

(And what the hell is going on with Mycroft? Patrick seemed to have him wrapped around his little finger back in September. I always supposed the reason we didn’t see much of Mycroft these days was because the pair of them were off drinking brandy and having sophisticated witty little chats about philosophy and classical music. Maybe running around in very expensive velvet capes and fangs on Hampstead Heath, who the hell knows? But the poor git looked almost miserable when I mentioned him.)

(Christ. I just felt sorry for Patrick bloody Singh. There’s obviously something _deeply_ wrong with me.)

 

***

All thoughts on Patrick Singh were banished from John’s mind when he returned to Baker Street, to find Sherlock ‘packing’ for them both. By the time John had extricated the microscope, extensive chemistry equipment and for some reason, a large plastic bag with six live goldfish from his suitcase and replaced them with sensible warm clothing it was almost time to leave for the station. 

“But there’s no _room_ for the fish in my case, John!” Sherlock wheedled, attempting to wrestle the second microscope into his own luggage. 

“Just repeat that sentence back to yourself, Sherlock.” John muttered, firmly zipping his bag shut. “Repeat it until you realise just what is so very _wrong_ with the scenario.”

“But I might need the goldfish for testing purposes.” Sherlock said, as if explaining the situation to an imbecile. “They are invaluable when it comes to poison isolation-“

“So you want to bring a load of poor goldfish all the way to Scotland so that you can poison them?” John asked slowly. “I swear to god, I’m going to call PETA on you some day, Sherlock. No, absolutely not. No!” he firmly took the large bag of water from a loudly protesting Sherlock and placed it on the stairs. “I’m giving them to Mr. Chatterjee, he’s got that big aquarium. He won’t mind.”

“They wouldn’t _all_ be poisoned,” Sherlock muttered darkly, turning back to his case and attempting to fit a sixth pair of (identical) Italian leather shoes in alongside the skull, a theodolite and several large volumes on toxicology. “Only a complete dolt would end up poisoning _all_ of them.”

John rolled his eyes and doubled back to the bedroom, intending to roll his case out into the hall. He would drop the fish off at Speedys on their way out, he decided. Maybe they could pick up some sandwiches at the same time and some- 

He was brought to an abrupt halt by Sherlock’s hand grabbing the back of his jumper on the way past. 

“Here.” Sherlock said brusquely, pushing an innocuous brown paper parcel into his hands. John stared down at it as the detective turned to his sock index, selecting several pairs of ostensibly (but absolutely, definitely _not_ ) identical socks to add to his luggage.

“What’s this?” John asked, perplexed. He sat down on the edge of the unmade bed and ran his fingers across the neatly wrapped rectangular object. 

“Oh, you know. Christmas… thing.” Sherlock said, determinedly not meeting his eyes. “Utter nonsense, of course. But thought you might… well. Like it.”

“You got me a present?” John asked; feeling suddenly, ridiculously touched. “I’m sorry I haven’t got one for you, though. Not yet. The Brighton thing sort of snowballed before I got the chance to-“

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand over one shoulder and concentrated on his index. He seemed to be taking a very long time to choose some socks, and John stared curiously at the back of the man’s neck where it was bent over the teak chest of drawers. It looked a bit pink.

Slowly, he ran his thumbnail along the tape on either side of the parcel, which was a little smaller and shallower than an average shoe box. The layers of heavy brown paper parted to reveal a dark wooden box, absolutely plain and polished to a glossy sheen. He flicked the small silver catch open curiously, and inhaled sharply when he saw what lay inside. 

“Oh, my god.” he said blankly, staring at the gleaming steel barrel, the matt black grip. “Oh, Sherlock. _Oh._ ”

“Well, I decided that your old service revolver needed replacing after that incident down at the wharf.” Sherlock said dismissively, still not turning around. “Do you… is it-“

John couldn’t stop staring at the gun. Alright, he wasn’t one of those slightly worrying types who had subscriptions for Guns & Ammo and who obsessed over firearms. As long as they were reliable and worked well he was happy; but this… this was, well… _beautiful._

He picked it up reverently, feeling the way that the grip nestled perfectly into the curve of his palm. The steel was polished to a high shine at the sides of the barrel, tapering to an oddly tactile dull grey at the top. It was heavy and cool in his hand; it wasn’t overly large and it was rather understated in style; but there was something particularly, quietly menacing about it. John felt an odd, secret thrill when he held it; it felt truly his. It wasn’t something that had been used by others for who knew what purpose before he had acquired it. 

This was a gun that was meant for him to use, for his own reasons and only according to his own principles. A gun that was meant for his hand alone. 

Sherlock had managed to tear himself away from his socks and was studying John out of the corner of his eye in a determinedly nonchalant manner as he completed his packing.

“Sherlock…” John murmured, running his fingers in an unconscious caress down the barrel. “It’s…” he trailed off, suddenly becoming aware of the lump in his throat. 

“Good?” Sherlock asked casually.

“I love you.” John said, after swallowing with difficulty. “It’s beautiful and I love you.”

The smile that slowly inched across Sherlock’s face suddenly made it even more difficult to speak. John contented himself with pulling the man down onto the bed and kissing him thoroughly, the Walther still clutched in his fist as he wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“John, um-“ Sherlock gasped, after long breathless minutes. John grinned, and hitched his thigh a little higher over his hip. “Oh, John; there’s something I need to tell you- I meant to tell you before, but-“ 

John stilled suddenly, his heart pounding. He lay back on the bed, looking up into Sherlock’s huge, slanted green eyes; the hand still holding the gun coming to a halt at the small of his back, the other buried in his tousled hair. 

(Oh god, is he-? Can he say it now?)

Sherlock smiled down at him fondly, and dropped a kiss on the corner of John’s mouth. 

“John, you need to know. The gun… it’s loaded.”


	4. Chapter 4

Having never taken one before, John had always thought that sleeper trains were a rather charming idea. He liked the idea of drifting into sleep, lulled by the rocking of the carriages, and waking to find a new landscape outside the window.

“But where’s the rest of it?”

“John, there _is_ no rest of it. This really is how small the compartments are. I did _say_ that I’d be willing to fly.”

“Ha, no. If I can possibly help it, I am never getting on a plane with you ever again. Not if there is any other possible mode of transportation. Including pack mule and unicycle. Not after Antwerp.”

“Patently illogical. My actions on that plane deviated in no way from my usual patterns of behaviour. I can hardly help it if other passengers tend to act strangely when cooped up together for a few hours.”

“Sherlock, three people were arrested for air-rage!”

“And yet none of them, you will recall, were me.” Sherlock sniffed, placing his scuffed violin case and leather overnight bag onto the luggage rack above one of the narrow fold-out beds in the train compartment. 

“Only because your nose was bleeding so much. They had to wheel you off the plane, remember?” John reminded him, attempting to roll his small case into the cramped space and managing to stub toes on both feet in the process. Hissing in pain, he flopped down on the bunk opposite Sherlock’s and watched as the detective hung up his coat on a doll-sized hanger in the tiny wardrobe. 

The train jolted, and slowly began to rumble out of Euston station. Through the unshuttered window, John watched the lights of London rapidly streaking through the darkness. Before long, the city was a sodium orange glow behind them, and he could feel the train gaining speed as it headed into the shadows of the north.

Half an hour later, ensconced in the lounge of the Caledonian Sleeper, life seemed much more agreeable. The train was only half-full, and John took up residence on a comfortable sofa with a glass of decent red wine, a plate of roast beef sandwiches and a spy thriller. Sherlock had snorted derisively at the sight of this book, and curled up at the far end of the sofa with his laptop and three volumes on dental forensics. A handful of other passengers wandered in and out of the lounge as the evening passed, murmuring greetings as they passed Sherlock and John on their way to the bar. A middle aged couple took up residence in a pair of armchairs across the carriage, and John absently returned the smile that the faintly weary looking woman directed at him. Her husband dropped a variety of books and newspapers untidily around his seat and on the small table under the window, before kicking off his leather brogues with a loud sigh of relief. 

The woman smiled at John again, in a conspiratorial and slightly embarrassed fashion; before glancing at Sherlock. At first, John thought that perhaps she might be flirting; and he hastily directed his gaze back down at the pages of his book. He then realised that Sherlock’s stockinged feet had somehow ended up pressed into the side of his thigh, his long toes kneading absently at John’s hip. When John looked over at the detective he was gnawing moodily at his thumbnail while viciously hitting the delete button on his laptop; no doubt deleting asinine comments on his blog.

The woman wrinkled her nose at John and rolled her eyes sympathetically. 

_Look at the pair of them. Can’t take them anywhere, eh?_ her look seemed to say, and John felt his mouth stretch into a helpless grin, feeling his face flush a little. His hand dropped down to squeeze Sherlock’s bony ankle and he huffed a quiet laugh into his glass of wine. Across the carriage, the woman was attempting to create some order in the mess of papers, smiling in a fond and exasperated way at her husband, who was patting all his pockets in a desperate attempt to find his glasses. 

Little, inconsequential moments like this. They really shouldn’t still make such an impact, not really. He and Sherlock had been… whatever they were… for months now. He had initially worried that it would be difficult, being part of a couple. Being _seen_ as part of a couple. (And yes, with a man, that came into it too.)

And yet, the imagined problems never really presented themselves. On some level, John had thought that there would be some hideously awkward ‘coming out’ situation, where people would start looking at him differently. Perhaps not as bad as it had been for Harry, all those years ago… after all, the world had thankfully changed since then. But nonetheless, he had expected speculation, sniggering in corners at Scotland Yard and snide remarks. 

But most of their acquaintances had merely shrugged, and life had continued much as it had done. When he had haltingly told his old rugby pals from Uni about the new developments, after several bolstering pints, he had been greeted with faintly baffled looks (“But that’s hardly news, is it? I mean, we all thought you’d been at it for years!”)

It had all turned out surprisingly… _easy_. Sherlock had always stood close, had touched John with impunity, had bossed him about and never made a secret of his need for his company. John had always accepted this, in fact quietly relished it. But suddenly stepping forwards into Sherlock’s space, letting his hand rest on the back of his neck or the thin skin of the inside of his wrist… that was new. Receiving friendly glances from strangers who saw them plainly (accurately) as a unit, a couple; that was new. And something about it faintly thrilled John, every time it happened. They were a couple, just as much as the married pair now playing gin rummy and drinking g &t’s across the carriage.

Never mind that he had a Walther weighing down one pocket of his jacket, and that Sherlock was now avidly studying gruesome photographs of broken molars at the other end of the sofa. The idea that the love between them was now obvious, for anyone to see… well. It made him glow inside, just a tiny bit.

“Stop it.” Sherlock muttered, without looking up. “I can tell when you’re doing it. Stop getting all… _sentimental._ ”

“Sorry. Please excuse me, I’ll rein it in.” John said seriously, turning a page and sliding the tips of his fingers just a tiny bit further above Sherlock’s ankle so that they found a patch of bare skin above the black silk sock. Sherlock poked his big toe sharply into John’s hip in a movement that somehow managed to be both fond and reproving, before returning to his book. 

The train stopped once or twice, allowing more passengers aboard at dimly lit stations. The lounge car slowly emptied after the bar took last orders some time after they passed York; the lights lowering to a warm glow. John had wanted to stay up long enough to catch a glimpse of Edinburgh as they passed through, and the Forth Bridge, but found himself nodding over his book more than once. Eventually he forced himself to get up; yawning and stretching before prodding one of Sherlock’s bent knees. The detective looked up, seeming faintly startled at the almost empty carriage and deep blackness of the countryside outside the train windows.

“I’m going to bed. You coming?”

“Mmm. Not yet. I’m still finishing this chapter.”

“Don’t be long, eh?” John bent to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, and managed to collide with his nose as Sherlock aimed for his mouth. “Ouch!”

Sherlock rubbed his cheekbone a little crossly and glared. “For heavens sake, you might as well attempt to kiss me properly!”

“Well if you don’t stay up too late, maybe I will!” John retorted, attempting to suppress a grin. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his book. “If you think that there is room for any kind of sexual activity in our berth, you are _sadly_ mistaken, John.”

A passing steward carrying a tray of empty glasses very carefully did not react to this statement, and bent to retrieve John’s empty plate and wineglass. He nodded respectfully at them both, before swiftly retreating to the galley behind the bar. 

“Sounds like a challenge to me, really.” John said thoughtfully, gratified by the faint flush creeping across Sherlock’s face. He winked, and gathered up his book and discarded jacket. “See you in a while, then.”

 

***

It certainly did turn out to be a while. 

John lowered the shutters in the small stuffy compartment, before taking a long shower in the tiny cubicle. He managed to restrain personal injury to a whacked elbow and knee as he moved around the berth and got ready for bed. He tried both narrow bunks and decided that both were equally uncomfortable before wriggling under the sheets. He left one small light on, and fought the urge to slip into sleep; soothed by the movement of the train. It was surprisingly quiet; and he supposed that he must be one of the few passengers still awake.

Eventually he drifted off, fingers slowly coming to a still where they were idly stoking his half hard cock. 

(And it wasn’t as if this was the first time Sherlock had decided that reading about violent injury was more appealing than coming to bed with John.)

An indeterminate amount of time later, John awoke face down on his bunk. His heart was racing and he was sweating as he pressed his face into the pillow, becoming aware of his aching hardness.

“Interesting.” said Sherlock drily, from where he sat on the edge of the opposite bunk. John gasped slightly, turning to face him. He swallowed hard, and kicked off the sheets in an attempt to cool down.

“What is?” he managed, after a few moments of trying to get his breathing under control. 

“It’s the rocking of the train. Subconsciously, it’s left you in an unusually aroused state. I’ve been watching you for nearly ten minutes. It’s interesting.”

“Oh.” John said, closing his eyes and feeling oddly, ridiculously embarrassed. (It’s not as if he can even tell exactly what you were dreaming about, besides the obvious.)

“You were rubbing yourself against the sheets, face down. You don’t usually sleep like that.” Sherlock commented thoughtfully. 

“It’s been a while since I had that kind of dream.” John muttered, fitfully running his hands down his thighs. The compartment suddenly seemed stifling, and irritatingly, Sherlock didn’t seem to be in a hurry to undress. 

“You’re embarrassed.” Sherlock said, resting his chin on his hand and looking intrigued. “Why are you embarrassed? Why would you be?”

“M’not.” John muttered, untruthfully. (It’s not _all_ of the truth, anyhow.)

“You’re embarrassed, because you were dreaming about something you don’t think I’d find acceptable.” Sherlock frowned. “You do realise, I don’t hold you accountable for dreaming about someone else-“

“It was you. Very definitely, absolutely, _without a shadow of a doubt_ , you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was-“ John broke off, and glared at the ceiling. (Oh, clever. Well done, Watson. Just because all the blood has left your brain, it does not excuse that kind of slip up!)

“I see. You were face down, and you couldn’t see me.” Sherlock murmured, not meeting John’s eyes as he began to unbutton his shirt. “I was behind you? On top of you?”

John didn’t answer, his face burning. He closed his eyes. He was still shamefully, ridiculously erect. 

“Look, I can’t help it if I dream about it. I’d never ask you-“ he broke off, and sighed in frustration.

“Shh.” Sherlock murmured, and John felt the cool pressure of his large hand pressing on his chest. “Don’t. Please.”

The bunk creaked alarmingly as Sherlock sat on the edge of it, and after a moment of feeling the hand smoothing across his chest and collarbones John sighed and opened his eyes again. Sherlock was smiling at him a little crookedly, and perhaps a little awkwardly. 

“I know you want that, John, although you’ve never asked me again.” Sherlock whispered quietly. “And I’m… I’m grateful that you haven’t. But you don’t need to be ashamed of wanting something. God knows, you’ve tried everything I wanted to.”

“Not page 48.” John pointed out, with a brave attempt at levity. Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a small, fond smile as John covered his hand with his own.

“I thought we’d agreed that page 48 was still open for discussion, John.” Sherlock said airily, calmly pushing the sheets off the end of the bunk and stretching out next to him on the hard narrow mattress.

“Not on your life.” John muttered, managing to relax a little as he felt Sherlock’s body pressed against the length of his. 

“Take these off.” Sherlock ordered impatiently, tugging on the hip of John’s pajama bottoms. John lifted his hips off the bunk and let Sherlock slip the cotton down his thighs. The waistband caught on his persistent erection and he huffed a laugh, turning so that he lay with his back pressed against Sherlock’s chest. 

A long bare arm slipped under his own and smoothed across his stomach, stroking the fine trail of hair below his navel. John sighed quietly, his breath hitching as Sherlock’s sharp teeth grazed beneath his ear and at the nape of his neck.

“You dreamt about me penetrating you.” Sherlock murmured, after a long breathless minute. His voice was dark, and a little husky. It was almost inaudible as he continued. “You dreamt about me fucking you, didn’t you?”

John nodded helplessly, feeling Sherlock’s prick hardening against the lower swell of his arse. He gasped as Sherlock’s hand swiftly moved upwards and began to persistently, rhythmically pinch his left nipple.

“I want to understand, John.” Sherlock continued, grinding slowly against him. “I don’t see why you want it so much. I don’t _like_ not knowing why.”

John took several deep breaths, swallowing convulsively as Sherlock teased the tender nub of flesh. He reached down and took hold of his neglected cock tightly, feeling the desire rolling in his stomach and making the insides of his thighs tingle sharply. Sherlock was slowly, torturously continuing to grind against the top of his thighs and the lower curve of his arse.

“Is it because you want me to _own_ you? You want me to _make you mine?_ ” Sherlock’s voice was soft, seductive but with the faintest hint of unease.

“N-No.” John whispered. “No, it’s… it’s not about that.”

“Tell me. Tell me why you want me to fuck you, John.” Sherlock murmured, running the tip of his tongue along the crease behind his ear.

“Because…” John moaned, and gasped as Sherlock’s cock slipped between his thighs, the tip slick and startlingly hot as it pushed up behind his balls. Sherlock tightened his arm around John’s chest and stopped grinding, just letting the motion of the train move his hips in a gentle yet persistent motion. “Because… oh, god, Sherlock. I love you. I want you inside me… just, fuck, in any way possible. I want to… I want to let you inside me. You’re in my head, have been for _years_. I want to feel you in me… I want to feel you fill me.”

Sherlock moaned as his hips began to move again. He steadily pushed into the hot damp space between John’s thighs, his cock pressing firmly against the sensitive flesh of John’s perineum and heavy aching balls. With each thrust, John felt himself edge closer and closer to release, dizzy with heat and lust and the sensation of Sherlock's body against his own, in some small way seeking _entrance_. John squeezed his thighs together and half-laughed, half-moaned at the incoherent sound Sherlock choked out. He felt long fingers cover his own where they were rapidly, tightly working at his aching prick. He let Sherlock take over, letting his own hand slip back and grasp the sharp hipbone, encouraging him to rut harder against him. 

“I want to feel you come inside me.” he whispered breathlessly, blood rushing in his ears and dizzy with the oncoming climax. “I want to feel you deep inside me, feel you fill me up til… til you’re _dripping_ out of me….”

“John!” Sherlock cried softly, sounding almost anguished. He seemed incapable of restraining the powerful thrusts of his hips and John arched back against him, the muscles in his thighs aching as he tightened them again. His fingertips dug into Sherlock’s hip, urging him to slide harder and faster before reaching further back and grabbing clumsily at his arse. 

Sherlock gasped and shuddered, and the feeling of his warm come spurting and smearing between John’s thighs and over his tightened balls proved to be his undoing. Sharp rushes of arousal growing more and more intense as he pressed himself back against Sherlock’s heaving chest, Sherlock’s fingers rapidly working him until he cried out in release and relief. He was unable to stop his body seeking out Sherlock’s, turning and reaching out, pulling the long damp thigh over his own and winding his arms around his neck as he rode out the last of his trembling climax.

“My darling.” he breathed in Sherlock’s ear, smoothing the tangled hair from his face. “Stunning, incredible man.”

Sherlock laughed shakily, curling a little more tightly around John and bringing their foreheads together. He seemed unable to respond, even in a characteristically acerbic manner. 

“We never have to. But I hope you know why I want it.” John whispered, after a few minutes of calmer breathing. Sherlock tightened his arms around him, but didn’t answer. “It’s nothing to do with ownership, or possession, Sherlock. This is my body, no one elses; not even yours. I’m inviting you in, I want to… I want to _share_ it with you. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded after a moment, his eyes shut. He leaned in so that his face was buried in the crook of John’s neck, and inhaled deeply before pressing his lips to the skin there. John waited for a minute or two, in case there was going to be a verbal response; but there didn’t seem to be one forthcoming. He reached down awkwardly with one hand for one of the sheets and pulled it over them both. 

“I ‘spose the trains not… so… bad… after all.” he sighed, punctuated his words with small irrepressible yawns. “I reckon we’d’ve gotten into quite a lot of trouble if we tried that on Easyjet.”

Sherlock snorted quietly and squirmed around until he was comfortably curled against John’s back, tugging at his arm until it was satisfactorily arranged around his shoulder. 

“Nevertheless. I say we give it a try on the way home.”

***

It seemed only minutes until they were awoken by a sharp rap on the door of their (mercifully locked) compartment. “Aberdeen in twenty minutes, gentlemen!” 

Sherlock sat up sharply, and promptly hit his head on the luggage rack overhead. He stared at it in outrage, his gaze swiftly moving to John who was giggling sleepily at him. 

“Your concern is touching, my dear John.” Sherlock muttered darkly, levering himself off the bunk and loosening the kinks in his cramped back with a groan. John grinned and followed suit, his bones protesting at the hours in close confinement on the hard mattress. He muzzily rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, inhaling the scent of his skin.

“Sorry. Do you think you’ll survive?”

“If I’m lucky.” Sherlock said grumpily, squeezing Johns wrist and moving towards the miniscule bathroom. “Take a look outside the door. There should hopefully be some tea. If there isn’t, I shall be most displeased.”

John quickly ducked his head out the door as he heard Sherlock splashing about in the shower, and managed to haul a covered tray back into the compartment without flashing anyone. He poured himself a cup of steaming tea and levered open the top shutter on the window, vaguely surprised at the utter darkness and clearly visible stars in the sky outside. He could just about make out the outlines of snow-covered rocky hillsides and patches of forest; once or twice a faint gleam of light from a distant homestead. He double checked his watch, sure that it couldn’t still be so dark at that hour; but the dial confirmed it. The differences between London and the Highlands were already making themselves known. 

After a quick shower and a despairing look at the mess they had left the sheets in, John gathered his luggage and followed Sherlock down the narrow corridor. The train was moving slowly as it drew into Aberdeen station, and he could already feel the chill in the air before the door opened. Wordlessly, Sherlock rummaged in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of gloves which he handed to John.

“Oh, er- thanks.” he said, pulling them on. They weren’t his; they were new and fit his hands perfectly. Unlike Sherlock’s, which he knew from experience were far too large for him.

“You always forget gloves.” Sherlock said disapprovingly, pulling down the window of the door and turning the outside handle beneath. “Although, frostbite is a fascinating injury. I’ve always wanted to study it on a living specimen.” 

“Nothing doing.” John said firmly, in case Sherlock was harbouring any thoughts of reclaiming the gloves, which were after all, rather nice and very warmly lined. “Jeeeesus!” 

The last exclamation came as he stepped down onto the dimly lit platform, his breath billowing opulently in front of his face. Instinctively he let go of the handle of his case and wrapped his arms around his torso; his teeth beginning to chatter within seconds.

“Bracing, isn’t it?” Sherlock remarked, tightening his scarf around his neck; seeming utterly unmoved by the bitter cold. He glanced around the quiet train station, taking in the arched glass and wrought iron roof and sleepy passengers making their way out into the snowy streets.

John burrowed his nose and mouth into his warm blue cashmere scarf and exhaled through the soft fabric, watching his breath waft and disperse in the frigid air. After a moment or two, Sherlock raised a hand in salute at a lone figure at the far end of the station, and they made their way to meet the man at the centre of the concourse. 

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mr. Brodie said, his slightly weather-beaten face creasing into a smile. “By god, it’s been a long time, laddie!” He wrapped both his hands around Sherlock’s own and pumped it enthusiastically; his dark eyes kind and alive with good humour. 

“Mr. Brodie. It’s good to see you again.” Sherlock said, with a small smile. 

“Must be twenty years! I’d recognise this laddie anywhere, though,” he added, turning to John with a friendly grin. John tried very hard indeed not to think about Eulalie or floral frocks. “And you must be Dr. Watson, Violet’s told me all about you.”

“Oh, god.” John said in slight alarm, shaking the man’s proffered hand. “Sorry. Nice to meet you, Mr. Brodie.”

“Here, I’ll take that.” Mr. Brodie said, taking John’s bag from him and ignoring his protests. “And that.” he picked up Sherlock’s much heavier case (no protests were expressed _there_ ) with the appearance of a man carrying nothing heavier than a couple of pillows, and led the way out of the station. “It’s good to have you back up here, and no mistake. Especially since I hear you’re the bees knees at figuring out puzzles; the village has been up in arms over this nasty business with the tonic water.”

“We brought supplies.” John interjected, indicating the large shopping bag containing several bottles of Fever Tree, along with the other items Violet had requested. 

“Thank god for that. Violet is running dangerously low, I know that for a fact.” Mr. Brodie laughed, tramping ahead along the slush and snow covered pavement. The dark streets were misty and glittered with ice; tall granite buildings loomed overhead, gleaming slightly where they caught the streetlights. He came to a halt next to a long black car, which at first John almost mistook for one of Mycroft’s many anonymous vehicles. However, when he took a closer look at the sleek shape, he saw that it was much older; low slung and extravagantly curved.

“Wow.” he said blankly, coming to a halt. “That’s-“

“Jaguar, mark nine. 1959. Nice, eh?” Mr. Brodie nodded approvingly.

“That’s my grandfather’s car.” Sherlock said blankly, staring at it. 

“Still going strong, too.” Mr. Brodie shrugged, after effortlessly swinging the cases into the luggage compartment at the back. “Hardly gets used at all, more’s the pity.”

He ushered John to the back seat, the heavy door unexpectedly opening to face the front of the car. Sherlock was firmly ushered into the back as well, despite his initial move towards the passenger seat. “Scunner’s in the front, and he won’t thank you for disturbing him.”

A glance over the top of the leather passenger seat revealed a small, aged wire haired terrier curled up on a moth-eaten old blanket; fast asleep and snoring asthmatically. The back seat was wide and well sprung, and to John’s delight there were a couple of hot water bottles and a heavy old fur-lined blanket stored in the footwell. 

“It’s a bit of a drive back to Hilderbogie,” Mr Brodie said, pulling out from the kerb and making his way slowly down the murky street. “Can’t have you two freezing on the way; Violet would have my guts for garters. She said she was going to make drop scones for breakfast, too.”

“I learnt to drive in this car. It still smells the same.” Sherlock said quietly, and John wondered if he had meant to say this out loud. He dragged a corner of the blanket over Sherlock’s lap and nudged his knee gently. Sherlock took off one glove and ran his fingers wonderingly along the wooden panelling and leather of the door, taking deep breaths of the air which smelt of decades of stale tobacco and what John suspected was the whiff of elderly dog.

As they made their way out of the city and began to move into the countryside, the pre-dawn light began to seep over the snow-covered hills and permeate the mist, turning the rolling landscape into stark monochrome, punctuated by black trees and rocky outcrops, dark twisting rivers cutting through the white fields. Occasional flocks of crows soared and wheeled overhead, coming to perch on ancient stone walls to stare at the passing car through gleaming, jewel bright eyes.

John nodded off again, warm under the heavy fur blanket and with the hot water bottle firmly pressed against his chest. He only awoke when Sherlock nudged him sharply, the car hesitating at the top of a steep pass. Blinking in the now bright sunlight, John leaned forward over the front seat and stared. 

At the bottom of the winding road, in the bend of a tree-lined river stood a large grey stone building, with many small windows and three steeply turreted towers. Smoke was drifting from a few of the high chimneys and winding slowly through the cold still air. Expansive gardens stretched away on three sides, giving way to what looked like endless snow covered farmland and forest which stretched onwards, across the river and up the slope of the hills across the glen. A lone figure was trotting on a piebald horse, away from them and past a small gabled church, down a distant track. 

He opened his mouth to exclaim at the vista, the harsh unexpected beauty of the landscape and the mellow grandeur of the house (manor? castle? Is it a castle if it’s got turrets? If it is, I’m going to tease Sherlock for _years_ for not telling me his family have a bloody castle).

He turned with a smile to Sherlock as Mr. Brodie began the slow descent down the hilly road, and his words promptly died in his throat. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, absently biting on the knuckle of his right index finger. His face was carefully, worryingly blank. 

“Ok?” he asked quietly, reaching under the blanket to rest his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. The muscles felt tense, almost rigid. 

Sherlock looked round at him and nodded impatiently before his gaze was inexorably drawn back to the house and farmlands. “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m _okay._ Absurd.”

John stared at him curiously, his heart sinking a little. The car pulled through a tall set of granite gateposts, guarded by worn stone stag’s heads, their antlers immense and made from what looked like real bone. Tall snow-capped hedges impeded their view across the land now, and the great house was visible at the far end of the gravel drive. John reached out and took hold of Sherlock’s hand, which was sweating slightly. He squeezed the unresponsive fingers and didn’t let go until Sherlock looked down at him, his face pale and stony.

“So we’re here.” he said completely unnecessarily, but at rather a loss over what to say. “Ready?”


	5. Chapter 5

The car came to a leisurely halt on the gravel drive of Hilderbogie house, and Mr. Brodie sat back in the drivers seat after turning off the engine. He looked in the rear view mirror with an inquiring expression, and cleared his throat meaningfully. 

“Alright boys, out you get. I’ll take the car round to the garage, and bring your bags in for you later. I’m sure you’ll find your way round, eh?”  
This last comment was obviously directed at Sherlock, who was still poker faced and pale. He nodded brusquely, and abruptly wrenched the car door open. The icy air seemed to slap John in the face as he scrambled out after Sherlock, only belatedly remembering to thank Mr. Brodie for the lift. The estate manager waved away John’s words, his dark eyes fixed on Sherlock with a faint concern. 

As the stately old car rolled away and around the side of the great house, John turned to find Sherlock standing motionless on the gravel; his hands buried in his pockets and his expression remote. He stared up at the house, at the small square-paned windows and the huge blocks of granite that glittered in the light of the morning sun. The air was bitingly cold, and very still; the only sound coming from the wheeling crows overhead. Several settled in a nearby tree, causing a minor avalanche from the lower branches. 

The soft crump of the snow hitting the frozen ground seemed to jolt Sherlock out of whatever meditative trance he was in, and he met John’s gaze evenly. “You’re freezing. Come on, let’s go in.”

John nodded, and let Sherlock lead the way up a short flight of stone steps that had worn into deep concave shapes from centuries of footfall. The large arched double doors at the top were painted a deep, glossy red and hung with extravagant garlands of real pine boughs and trailing silk ribbons. Sherlock paused once again, very briefly, before turning one of the shining brass handles and pushing the right hand door open. 

John was almost too taken up with watching Sherlock to register the grandeur of the dark wood panelled and vaulted hall. After a moment, however, when he joined Sherlock in front of an immense rough stone fireplace he allowed himself to look around. As he stripped off his new gloves and basked in the sudden heat of the leaping flames, he stared around the gloomily austere hall, his eyes widening a little as he took in the many stuffed stags heads on the walls. There was a huge black metal chandelier overhead, bearing the remains of hundred of melted candles which had left pendulous trails of wax hanging beneath. The small square windows let in very little light, and the immense thickness of the ancient walls was obvious when he took in the deep window seats on either side of the door.

“Cheerful, isn’t it?” Sherlock remarked, in a determinedly breezy tone. “My grandmother prided herself on the fact that this room hadn’t needed to be redecorated since 1840.”

“Mmm.” John raised an eyebrow. “Not much like Violet’s place in Edinburgh, really.”

It was true; while the house in Edinburgh was admittedly large and grand, it was crammed with strange fanciful objects and vibrant mismatched paintings that effortlessly displayed Violet’s own style and personality. This place however, had a still, serious air. The few paintings on the walls were ancient portraits and highland landscapes, all of them darkened with age and centuries of wood smoke.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, unwinding his scarf and dropping it messily on an ornate carved wooden chair next to the fireplace. “She doesn’t spend all that much time here. Beyond the library, I don’t think she’s ever really thought of it as hers at all.”

“Where is she, anyway?” John asked curiously. He had expected to find Violet waiting for them on the steps, beaming with anticipation. Clearly someone was home; after all the fire had been lit for some time and there were one or two lamps lit in the darkest corners of the huge hall.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, and a small smile finally ghosted across his face. “Twenty three seconds.”

John decided not to ask and contented himself with moving back to Sherlock’s side. He slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and squeezed his side. 

“You alright, though?” he asked. 

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth, evidently ready to brush off John’s pointless enquiry. 

“No, stop it. I need to know. Are you alright?” John asked insistently. He could hear a sharp, rhythmic tapping noise coming from the distance and he lowered his voice. “I know this place will probably bring back some bad memories. We don’t have to stay-“

“Revolting worms!” a familiar voice cried, and Violet barrelled from a stone arch in the corner of the room, a delighted smile setting her freckled face alight. 

Sherlock hadn’t answered John, but the way his own face lit up at the sight of his cousin did much to set John’s concerns aside. He went to meet her halfway across the dark parquet floor and bent to kiss her scarred cheek with great affection. Violet stretched up on the toes of her magenta high heels and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, her giddy laugh echoing loudly as he returned the embrace.

“John, darling blister!” Violet grinned, stretching out a hand to him. She didn’t seem quite ready to let go of Sherlock, and John squeezed her fingers warmly; unable to stop the answering smile on his face. 

“Vi. Great to see you again!”

“Oh, and you’re wearing your jumper, you sweet old beastie.” She let go of Sherlock and hugged him tightly, stroking the wool of the dark green sweater he wore in a gesture that was clearly calculated to look as flirtatious as possible. John hugged her back, feeling the warm curves of her body against his own and the familiar smell of oranges and spice. Seeing her again felt like an odd sort of homecoming.

“Ten seconds is entirely long enough to embrace a person whom you have only met once before.” Sherlock said with a disapproving air, watching the motion of her hand on John’s bicep. “When are we having breakfast?”

Violet pulled away from John with a roguish wink of her brown eye and turned to face Sherlock.

“Who said anything about breakfast?”

“Mr. Brodie. He said you were making drop scones.” Sherlock said firmly. 

“Oh, such a shame. Completely ran out of baking powder. And raisins. Couldn’t be done.”

“Liar. There’s flour on your sleeve.”

“Perspicacious git.” Violet said fondly, taking his arm and leading them through the arch she had appeared from. “They’re not quite done yet, though. I had an unexpected visitor and we got chatting.” John followed them down the vaulted stone corridor towards what must have been the old servants’ wing. Pushing open a green baize door, Violet led the way down a short spiral staircase and into a cavernous kitchen that couldn’t have changed much since Victorian times. Gleaming copper pans hung from a high rack over the massive scarred wooden kitchen table, and complicated ironwork surrounded the wide fireplace. 

A woman stood next to the kitchen door, hastily wrapping a long woollen scarf around her neck. She was tall, dark and rangy, with thick dramatically arched eyebrows above almost comically large brown eyes. 

“Miss Vernet, I won’t keep you – thanks so much for the tea and sympathy. I do appreciate it.” she looked a little awkward, and nodded jerkily at John and Sherlock. 

“Oh, Petty, you don’t need to rush off! Stay for some breakfast at least-“ Violet protested, making her way over to the woman, who actually was more of a girl now that John looked more closely. She shook her head decisively, pulling a knitted hat down over her ears. 

“Not a bit of it. I’ll be off now, I’ve got to do something about the shop anyhow. Let me know if you need anything, Toni and Pheemy said they’d help me sort out the ordering.”

“You’ve been given the all clear to open again?” Violet asked curiously, picking up one of the girl’s dropped mittens. 

“No, not yet; but we’ve got to make sure the place is cleaned up before we do. Dad said that you were to have whatever you needed though; he knows you’ve got visitors the next few days. He was worried you might run out of something.”

“Your dad is a glorious man, and you’re to tell him I said so.” said Violet, who looked touched. “I’ll try and get in to see him before long.”

“He’d like that.” Petty said, turning to go. “It’d do him good, to have _somebody_ smile at him. The bloody police do nothing but frown, and my blasted sisters seem to do nothing but wail over him. I’ll be seeing you. Sorry to intrude, lads.” This last remark was directed to John and Sherlock, who nodded and waved respectively.

The kitchen door swing shut behind her, and Violet sighed distractedly. 

“One of the grocers daughters, then?” John asked, hovering near the fireplace which was belching out heat. The kitchen was dimly lit, and filled with the promising smell of fresh baked bread and brewing coffee. 

“Indeed. One of the many Misses Antonelli.” Violet confirmed, slapping Sherlock’s hand absently as he began to investigate the biscuit tin on a nearby high dresser. She tied an apron around the waist of her beautifully cut wool dress and turned her attention to a hot griddle on the stove. She began to carefully ladle spoonfuls of thick creamy batter onto the cast iron, and immediately the scent of vanilla and cinnamon began to waft through the kitchen. “Miss Petronella Antonelli. The second eldest, the others being Antonia, Euphemia, Grizelda, Murdina, Prunella and Arabella.”

“Are the parents merely imbeciles or needlessly cruel?” Sherlock wondered aloud, curiously rummaging through one of the larders.

“Mr. Antonelli is an utter treasure; but he left the naming to his late wife who was a woman who had evidently read far too many Georgette Heyer novels. She died around ten years ago. Of natural causes,” Violet added, deftly flipping one of the drop scones at least two feet in the air and adding another ladle of batter to the griddle. “Toni is the oldest; she’s twenty two and is studying accountancy in Glasgow. Pruny and Rab are the youngest; they’re twelve, and they’re little terrors,” Violet smiled approvingly. “Pheemy is next after Petty, and she’s a bit of a drip but essentially harmless. Plays the piano at parties and sings with her eyes closed, regardless of whether anyone wants her to, which they generally don’t. I’m fairly sure that Griz is an amateur poacher, and Murdy always appears to be plotting world domination at any given moment. I’m good pals with their dad, not least because I did him a favour and told each one of his daughters the facts of life when the time came.”

“Which I should hope involved extensive and detailed information about every kind of contraception.” Sherlock remarked, appearing at her side with an empty plate and a hopeful expression. 

“Too bloody right. Poor Mrs. Antonelli, she was pregnant for a good chunk of her adult life before she kicked the bucket.” Violet grimaced, and placed a stack of scones on Sherlocks’ plate. He cleared this throat and glared at her meaningfully until she sighed and added another two to the pile. “John, hurry up and get some of these before this greedy swine eats them all.”

John grinned and accepted a plate, before joining Sherlock at the table. Sherlock was avidly watching the fresh butter oozing and melting over the pile of scones, before reaching for a thick glass jar that contained a large comb of honey and several large sprigs of rosemary. He inhaled the heady scent that rolled from the deep golden contents when he opened the lid, his eyes closed and his lips parted. 

John couldn’t help staring at Sherlock when he got like this. It wasn’t just his unabashed delight at the food in front of him (although that was certainly rare enough), but the sheer sensuous pleasure he was taking at the flavours and scents. He licked the dripping honey from his thumb after drizzling it liberally over his plate, the movement of his full lips around his fingers nearly causing John to drop his fork.

(Not the time, Watson. Absolutely bloody well _not_ the time.)

He flushed hotly when he noticed the way Violet was grinning at him from across the table. He lamely attempted to cover his embarrassment by pouring cups of dark richly scented coffee for them all. 

“So, er- Mr. Antonelli.” John said, after a bite of dropscone nearly melted in his mouth and caused him to close his eyes in bliss. “The police reckon he did it, then? Poisoned the tonic water?”

Violet frowned and shrugged, eating her own breakfast with rather more elegance and restraint than her cousin. “I don’t know about the rozzers, but the village certainly seems to think so. I mean, yes, the tonic did come from his shop; but what kind of idiot would decide to poison people in such a ludicrous way? It’s the only place you can buy the stuff within twenty miles, it’s beyond obvious that it would lead back to Antonelli’s. And the poor chap ended up drinking it himself, and nearly died from it. He might have done that to throw off the scent, admittedly; but it would be terribly risky.”

“Do any of the daughters have motive?” Sherlock asked, after brazenly stealing John’s last scone and wiping up the remains of the butter and honey from his plate. 

“Sherlock, do that again and you’re in _serious_ trouble.” John glowered, watching the last of his breakfast disappear with almost alarming speed. 

“How the hell can you eat like this and still be as skinny as a bloody racing snake?” Violet inquired, moving her own plate safely out of reach before giving one of her scones to John. “No, no motive that I can see. The twins haven’t worked their way up to homicide just yet, and Murdy wouldn’t think so small. If she wanted to go on a poisoning spree, she’d take out the whole village.”

Sherlock began to look a little more interested in the grocers’ family.

“So… besides Mr. Antonelli, the vicar’s wife and the local PC were poisoned as well, right?” John asked, trying to remember the details of her letter from the morning before.

“Yes, Mrs. Duncan and PC Dalziell. And wretched Miss Argyle, the schoolteacher. I’m sure it was only a matter of time before _someone_ to poison her. If I lived up here all the time I might have given it a go myself.” Violet said darkly, pouring more coffee into Sherlock’s cup. “Poor Mrs Duncan is a fairly blameless individual, if a bit obsessed with the Almighty.”

“Goes with the territory, I should think?” John remarked.

“Yes, I suppose. Can’t imagine too many vicars marry hard-line atheists.” Violet agreed, sitting back in her seat and extracting a slim silver case from the pocket of her dress. She lit one of the familiar black and gold cigarettes and inhaled deeply, shaking her long red curls back over her shoulder with an impatient gesture. “Dalziell’s a bit of an odd one. Can’t say I know too much about him; he’s only been in the village for a couple of years. Seems a quiet sort of chap, keeps to himself; but as I mentioned there was that business at the fête with the tombola. I mean, you can’t really go around accusing the local PC of petty larceny and besides, no real harm was done…”

“But an officer of the law who commits minor theft in a very public place?” Sherlock remarked, shifting in his chair and slouching just that little bit closer to Violet. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. “Could be a common or garden kleptomaniac, of course. But it could be a symptom of something rather more interesting, psychologically speaking. One lives in hope. Have the police discovered the type of poison used?”

“How should I know? I hardly have an inside line to the Aberdeenshire constabulary.” Violet complained, swapping her cigarette to her left hand and blowing a cloud of smoke away from Sherlock. “But I do have something that might lend a clue. Mr. Brodie picked some tonic water up for me a few days before I arrived back, as well as a few other bits and pieces from the village shop. Who knows, it might be some of the poisoned batch.”

“Excellent. I’ll take a look after I have some of that shortbread-“

“Needless to say, I wasn’t going to drink it once I heard what had happened; no matter how badly I was in need of a stiff G&T. Speaking of which-”

“Don’t worry, we brought you some more.” John reassured her. “Funny coincidence, actually. When I was picking up the tea and chocolate at Fortnum’s, I ran into Patrick Singh. Looked a bit down in the mouth, really.”

“Poor Patrick, he’s a dear old thing.” Violet said with a faint frown. John shrugged, decidedly non-committal. She evidently noticed his expression, and grinned. “Oh, I know he’s got that whole stilted _Brideshead Revisited_ sort of thing going on, but he’s a sweetheart underneath. I think he’s had a bit of a tough time since he went back to London, at least that’s what it sounded like in his last letter. Reading between the lines, I rather think things went a bit pear-shaped with bloody Mycroft.”

“Do not speak to me of such things, please.” Sherlock muttered, looking more than slightly appalled. “Where’s the tonic water?”

Violet ignored him. “He said he’d been doing a bit more painting, which surprised me. I never thought he was all that interested, although he’s really very good. I invited him here for Hogmanay, as well. Thought we might do a bit of work together.“

“I know, he said. I reckon he’d been planning something with Mycroft, but it fell through.” John recalled, then frowned. He remembered the way Patrick had described his Christmas day, sketching and walking alone on the beach at Lyme Regis, and began to feel a little guilty at his attempt to put him off coming to Scotland. “I did say that you probably wouldn’t mind a last minute acceptance, though.” he added, a little defensively.

“As long as he comes _alone_.” Violet said firmly and got to her feet, brushing a few crumbs off her dress. “Come on, Sherlock. Step away from that biscuit tin! Let’s go find you some tonic water.” She paused, and turned to wave a threatening finger in Sherlock’s impatient face. “And you’re to bloody well _stay away_ from the fish pond, I remember your methods all too well, you depraved git.”


	6. Chapter 6

As Violet led the way through the echoing stone corridors of Hilderbogie House, John caught more glimpses of the snow covered grounds that surrounded them. Through the small panes of thick rippled glass, he could see a small maze of box hedges and a sunken garden of complicated geometric flower beds. The sun had come out, and the bright cool light made the heavy frost on the shrubs glitter oddly. Beyond the formal gardens, thick woodland spread along the banks of the river and up the hills across the water, which was frozen along the banks. Ancient stone walls criss-crossed miles of farmland, and the only signs of movement were the ever-present flocks of black crows; startling against the blinding white landscape. 

The house itself had a faintly chilly, dour air. The corridors were sparsely decorated, with bare stone floors and high vaulted ceilings. Violet’s heels clicked loudly as she made her way to a room at the end of the second floor hallway, and she tucked the bottle of tonic water under her arm before opening a set of heavily carved dark wooden doors. She flashed a smile at Sherlock. 

“Your old digs. Remember?”

The room was flooded with light, which came through several tall narrow windows that overlooked the river and a small jetty that hung thick with icicles over the water. An enormous scarred desk stood under the windows, bearing the weight of several dog-eared notebooks, even more textbooks and a rather dated looking stereo. John looked around curiously, taking in the dark mahogany furniture and large high bed. There were several small animal skeletons on the mantelpiece, the bones expertly wired and mounted on roughly cut wooden bases. The walls were hung with several ancient engravings and woodcuts, faded and complex anatomical diagrams.

Sherlock followed Violet and John slowly, silently taking in his surroundings. He gently touched the outstretched wing of a bat skeleton that hung from the ceiling next to the fireplace, and watched it bob jerkily up and down. 

“You didn’t change anything.” He said at last, turning to face Violet with an odd expression on his face. 

“It wasn’t up to me, really.” Violet said, setting the bottle down on the desk. She half-smiled and turned to the fireplace, kneeling to touch a match to the kindling and logs. “Your grandmother had the place scrubbed and fumigated, obviously; but she never did see the point of redecorating for the hell of it. I never spent long enough here to get around to changing anything, somehow.”

Sherlock hummed vaguely, and turned to the high wide bookshelves that lined the walls on either side of the fireplace. It wasn’t a large room, and it began to warm up quickly from the newly lit fire. John spied their bags beside the bed, and bent to retrieve the large and now slightly battered paper bag which contained Violet’s requested tea and chocolate.

“Oh, you darling gump!” she said, rummaging around in the bag with a look of relief. “I’ve been getting withdrawal symptoms. And the tonic water too; splendid.”

“Not the same brand, though.” John said taking a look at the glass bottle that Sherlock was now holding up to the light. It was an unusual shape, large and flattened at the front and back. The neck was tightly stoppered with a cork and sealed with red wax. The fancy label attached to the neck with string read _Figmaleery’s Best Tonic_. 

“I know it looks wanky as hell; but it’s bloody good.” Violet commented. “It’s made by this little gin distillery up in the Shetlands. Mr. Antonelli sources it directly from them; he says it’s the best you can get. Unless it’s choc full of poison, I’m inclined to agree. Oh-!” 

She had wandered over to their suitcases, and something that she spotted on the floor had made her eyes light up. John craned his neck a little to see, but Sherlock seemed to be suppressing a tiny smile as he ran his fingers over the wax seal on the bottle.

“You brought it with you.” Violet beamed, having spotted his violin case. “Oh Christ, it’s been so long since I heard you play…”

“Not now, you miserable baggage.” Sherlock said brusquely. He took a seat at the desk, opened one of the drawers and started rummaging around in the contents noisily. “Later, perhaps.”

“You bloody better.” Violet warned, and turned to go. “I’ve got to have a look at the accounts, but I’ll see you two for lunch. Maybe after that you want to go to the hospital and have a chat with the victims?”

“Yes, that would be best.” Sherlock agreed. “What’s for lunch?”

“Pustule and tripe sandwiches and a glass of sour milk, if you’re lucky.” Violet said airily, making for the door. “Righto. I’ll see you goons in a while.”

She left the door open behind her, and John listened to her heels echoing away down the corridor. 

So this was where Sherlock had spent so much time, so many years ago. John wandered over to the large leather chesterfield that sat directly in front of the fireplace and stretched out on it after kicking off his shoes. When he had pictured Violet’s house in Aberdeenshire, he had always thought of it in summertime. Sherlock and Violet wandering across the lawns on hazy afternoons or reading in rowing boats on long twilit evenings. Not this empty, snowbound outpost.

He stared up at the ceiling, frowning slightly at the many faint blotches on the paint. Most of them were around and above the desk, but some had spread and splattered almost to the far side of the room. 

“My grandmother insisted that I move most of my equipment out into one of the outhouses, after the incident with the copper sulphate.” Sherlock murmured, without being asked. He was studying the wax seal intently under his magnifying glass. “Come here and have a look at this.”

John heaved himself off the sofa and took the glass from him. He stared at the top of the bottle. “What am I looking at?”

The wax was ornately moulded, no doubt by a seal pressed into the material before it cooled and set. It was some kind of fancy heraldic symbol, but beyond that John was having a hard time identifying it. “Some kind of wonky badger? And a…. shark? Maybe?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Honestly, John. Will you do me the great honour of looking beyond the obvious, just this once? As a special treat for me. Please?”

“Oh, shut up. You only do this so you can look extra clever in front of me, John Watson, the bloody great muggins!” John said irritably, putting the bottle back down on the desk. 

Sherlock merely tapped a finger at the edge of the seal and waited. John glared at him and bent to look again. For a moment or two he saw absolutely nothing more than the blurry pattern, and was about to give up when his eye caught a tiny indentation, close to the edge. At first he had thought that it was part of the design, but the tiny pinprick sized mark wasn’t repeated anywhere else on the seal.

“Ah. Injected in, then?”

“Well done, John.” Sherlock said in a tone that almost managed to sound unpatronising. John cuffed him gently around the ear. “Yes, the poison was injected through the seal and cork. This is almost definitely a bottle that was tampered with.”

“Thank goodness Vi didn’t drink it.” John murmured.

“Quite. Of course, once someone had uncorked the bottle and broken the seal, it would be almost impossible to find the mark that the needle left in the wax. The cork itself expands after extraction, and given the texture of the material it’s unlikely that the tiny hole would be spotted.”

“Clever.” John commented, sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “Will you open it?”

“Yes, but my means of identifying the poison are extremely limited.” Sherlock said sourly, no doubt remembering the unfortunate goldfish that John had given to Mr. Chatterjee. “I suspect we’ll either have to talk to the police or get it out of one of the victims. Give me your penknife?”

John rummaged in his pocket before extracting his Swiss army knife, and watched Sherlock use it to deftly uncork the bottle. The tonic fizzed gently, but didn’t erupt out of the bottle like John had expected it to, after being passed and carried around. 

“Not highly carbonated; I suspect partially through design but also through the escape of carbon dioxide through the hole left by the needle.” Sherlock sniffed the contents gingerly before pouring a few drops into a nearby china ashtray. He sniffed again curiously. 

“Infused with elderflower and traces of rhubarb, oddly enough.” He remarked. “There’s the bitterness of the quinine, of course; but there’s something else there too.”

“You are not going to taste it.” John said flatly. “You can damn well wait til this afternoon to find out, understand?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically, as if John were being tedious and overbearing in the extreme. He picked up a narrow book of paper that had been in the desk drawer, and tore off a red strip of what John immediately recognised as Litmus paper. 

“Will that still be reliable, after all this time?” he asked curiously, as Sherlock dipped it in the liquid. 

“Yes, it shouldn’t have degraded much.” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as the paper saturated and immediately identified the tonic water as alkaline. “Interesting. I’d be willing to bet that this is an organic compound.”

“An alkaloid?” John leant his elbow on Sherlock’s shoulder and stared out the window above the desk. “Well, I suppose you could probably find all sorts of poisonous material out in the woods here. When they’re not covered in snow, at least.”

“And you can also buy anything on the internet these days, John. It may look like the dark ages up here, but people do have _some_ contact with the outside world.” Sherlock replied, holding the paper up to the light. “That said, one summer I did manage to successfully distil an extract of Giant Hogweed from some plants that I found in the next glen. Quite extraordinarily potent,” he added proudly. 

“Do I want to know why?” John asked warily. 

“Why not? I was bored.” Sherlock shrugged, as if such a question was utterly incomprehensible. “Violet found me some alchemical texts shortly afterwards, and I began to replicate some of the experiments.”

“You’re going to tell me you tried to create a Philosphers Stone, aren’t you?” John grinned, and watched Sherlock turn faintly pink around the ears. 

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock said woodenly, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “That would be a complete waste of my time.”

***

Lunch, thankfully, turned out to be steaming bowls of fragrant oxtail soup and cheese scones still warm from the oven and slathered with creamy butter. Mr. Brodie joined them at the long kitchen table, leaving his stout boots inside the door. He gratefully took a chair close to the fireplace where Benjy and Scunner stared at each other balefully from opposite sides of the hearth. Violet patted Mr. Brodie affectionately on the shoulder as she put down a bowl in front of him and waved away his thanks.

“You poor old thing, Mr. Brodie. You must have been up to your knees in snow at the lambing sheds.”

Mr. Brodie shrugged, and ran a large hand through his fading blonde curls. “Had to be done. One of the roofs started leaking last night, and McGillivray wasn’t able to get up there to fix it, what with his dodgy back. Gave me a fair appetite, mind.” He grinned at her and picked up his spoon. 

“You manage the estate, then?” John asked, taking another cheese scone before Sherlock got to them all. “Must be a big job.”

“Och, not so bad. We’ve got about thirty workers for the land, house and gardens and a few more casuals in summer. This time of year, it’s a bit quieter – more about maintenance and getting ready for lambing season. Violet’s keen on getting some Highland cattle next year, but I’m yet to be convinced.” 

“But they’re got such lovely furry coats and long eyelashes and grumpy little faces.” Violet said dreamily, trailing her spoon through her soup. “Just think of the stews…”

“And we’d need to lease more land, as well as hire more staff.” Mr. Brodie said firmly. Violet made a face at him and he smiled fondly at her in response. “Remember that year when you helped out with lambing, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock looked up from his bowl, with a look of dimly remembered horror. John stared at him, incredulous. “You? _You_ did farmwork?”

“I can do many things.” Sherlock said, a bit primly. “Just because you’ve never _seen_ me do something, doesn’t mean that I _can’t_.”

“Well… that’s true.” John said slowly. “I’ve never believed that you’re completely incapable of paying the phone bill or doing the shopping, even though you never do them.”

“You weren’t bad at it, really.” Mr. Brodie said, wiping out the bottom of his bowl with a chunk of bread. “Takes a bit of getting used to, the lambing. A bit gory at times, of course; but you never seemed to mind that.”

“No, I didn’t.” Sherlock said, rather shortly. He reached out for the ladle of the soup tureen, and Violet cleared her throat and caught John’s eye. The message was plain: _Change the subject, for christs sake._

He reached out under the table and touched Sherlock’s knee, but Sherlock didn’t look up from his bowl. “So, er – the hospital. When do you think visiting hours are?” 

“Oh, I should think you’ll be alright any time before six.” Mr Brodie said, obviously picking up on some of Sherlock’s discomfort and trying to change the subject. “I heard from the Reverend that Mrs. Duncan will probably have to stay in a week or so longer; but they might let Mr. Antonelli and Dalziell out in the next day or two. I could drive you, if you like?”

“No, that’s not necessary, we’ll drive ourselves.” Sherlock said, pushing his bowl away finally. “You don’t mind if we take the car, Vi?”

She shrugged. “It’s not as if I drive it, and Mr. Brodie uses a jeep round the farm. I won’t come with you, though – got some things to do here. _Don’t_ upset Mr. Antonelli.” she said warningly, “but you may do what you bloody well like to the accursed Miss Argyle.”

Mr. Brodie nodded gloomily at the mention of the name. “Might be best not to mention that you’re staying with Violet to Miss Argyle. She might refuse to talk to you at all.”

***

John was more than a little surprised when Sherlock handed him the keys to the car as they made their way down the stone steps at the front of the house. He was a reasonable driver, but he didn’t do it very often and had never actually owned a car. Sherlock usually slid into the driver’s seat of any vehicle they had to rent (or occasionally purloin) without so much as an inquiring glance in John’s direction. But given that this car was undoubtedly the most beautiful one he was ever likely to sit inside, John didn’t protest.

Violet had handed him a heavy waxed jacket from the cloakroom in the hall, and firmly pulled a warm knitted hat down over his ears; deaf to his feeble protests. Sherlock waved away all suggestions of extra layers for the bitter cold, and stared at Violet in utter disbelief when she suggested that he should wear a hat. 

He swept from the house in total outrage when she tried handing him a pair of fluffy ear-muffs. 

The old jag was stored in one of the old stable buildings, which seemed largely empty. Only one or two of the loose-boxes seemed to be occupied, and this was only indicated by faint snorting and occasional drifts of white breath from above the half-doors. Trailing Sherlock across the cobbles of the stable courtyard, John stared around curiously. 

“I’m not telling you which one it happened in, and I am deeply concerned that you would wish to know.” Sherlock muttered, without looking around. He came to a halt in front of what must originally have been an old carriage house, and now held a variety of grimy buckets and gardening equipment as well as the car. “Come on, let’s _go_.”

It took a minute or two for John to get used to the large car, with the gleaming walnut dashboard and dials, and the extremely dated indicators; but he was soon confidently easing it out of the stable yard and onto the sweeping gravel drive. It was a bit like driving a rather elegant tank, but nonetheless it gave him a bit of a thrill to feel the way it effortlessly accelerated up the hill that led to the estate gateposts. 

It was early afternoon by now, and the sun still hung low in the sky; peering intermittently through dark leaden clouds. The fields that stretched away in every direction glistened white under a layer of hard frost over deep snow. Sherlock sat in silence, staring at the road disappearing under the bonnet of the car. John drove slowly, conscious of the packed snow and ice underneath them. 

(What is going on inside his head right now? He might as well be light years away.)

(And what the hell was all of that stuff about the lambing?)

“It’s beautiful up here.” John said, after ten minutes of silence. They were driving along the edge of a frozen loch, surrounded by slopes covered with towering pine trees, dripping with icicles that caught the sunlight strangely. 

“Yes.” Sherlock said absently, after a long pause. He didn’t seem to be taking in his surroundings at all. 

“The sun seems to be going down already.” John noted, after another several more miles of pensive silence.

“Mm.”

He supposed he should feel fortunate that Sherlock was responding to these inane comments at all, but John was beginning to feel more and more uneasy. He would have welcomed a scathing remark about John’s feeble grasp of winter daylight hours, or the dreadful tedium of rural scenery. But Sherlock merely stared ahead, obviously miles away. 

On a nearby slope, a group of slow-moving dark shapes were silhouetted against the blinding snow. John watched them out of the corner of his eye as he focussed on the road ahead, slowing down as he got nearer and nearer to the group. He stopped the car altogether on a small stone bridge as the deer appeared, and switched off the engine. It wasn’t as if they were going to block any kind of traffic. 

The animals were stately, their breath roiling in the cool air. In fits and starts they moved between the pines, dislodging small clumps of snow that landed messily on the frozen ground. Their hides were a deep burnt red, and John counted seven adult females as they trotted across the road and into the woods on the other side. They paid the car little attention; although their increased pace made it clear that they recognised a potential threat nearby.

John quietly marvelled at the animals, having never seen them so close before. The lines of their bodies were spare and elegant, giving the impression of coiled strength. The last deer in the group turned towards the car briefly and he held her dark, oddly knowing gaze for a split second before she bounded away to join her sisters among the trees. 

He waited for a minute, watching as they disappeared between the trees before reaching for the key in the ignition once again. Sherlock had remained still and silent throughout the encounter, but at this small movement his gloved hand shot out and grasped John’s wrist tightly.

John swallowed hard when he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face. His full lips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes were tightly shut. John reached out with his left hand and covered Sherlock’s where it was gripping his wrist uncomfortably tightly, as if he were somehow clinging to a kind of lifeline. 

“They’re gone.” he said softly, after a long moment. Sherlock didn’t move, his face pinched and twisted. Very slowly, John slipped across the wide bench seat and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, pulling him down so that his forehead came to rest on John’s shoulder. He was rigid in the awkward embrace, seeming unable to let go of John’s arm where it was trapped between them.

(Oh god. Why didn’t I realise what a fucking terrible idea it was, coming here? There seems to be bad memories waiting for him around every damn _turn_.)

He pressed his ear against Sherlock’s, feeling the cool skin begin to warm in the long minutes they sat there. The countryside was eerily quiet, with only the very occasional harsh caw of crows flying overhead to disrupt the silence.

He kissed Sherlock’s head, burrowing his face a little into the messy dark curls. Sherlock’s breathing was becoming a little more regular, the movement of his chest gradually slowing to match that of John’s where they were pressed together. 

“Breathe with me, Sherlock. Keep doing that.” he said quietly, running his hand slowly up and down the long expanse of his wool covered back. 

Sherlock’s face was reddened when he eventually pulled away, his eyes dry. He seemed reluctant to say anything or even meet John’s eyes. He stared down at his hands in their fine leather gloves and took several deep breaths through his nose. John reached out and cupped his cheekbone, wordlessly encouraging him to meet his gaze. 

“Was it this car?” he asked, after a moment. “This road?”

Sherlock shook his head, biting his lip sharply. He blinked rapidly, his eyes looking oddly colourless in the cold white light as he finally looked at John. “The… the deer. I’d forgotten how many of them there are up here. The car was scrapped. It didn’t happen anywhere near here. And if I’d been driving like you were, she would have been perfectly fine. Sherry… he might still be alive.”

“Violet _is_ perfectly fine.” John pointed out quietly. “And you can’t know that about Sherry. He was already an alcoholic. You had _nothing_ to do with that. It was his own decision to start drinking even more, afterwards.” 

“He was such a… a _kind_ man, really.” Sherlock said quietly. “And I was rude to him. I ignored him. I laughed at him, thinking him such an idiot for choosing to stay here rather than focussing on his own interests. Marrying to keep my grandmother happy.”

“You were a teenage boy. Alright, not quite the same as most teenage boys,” John added, raising a finger when he saw that Sherlock was about to protest. “But I think it’s probably safe to assume that you were a moody, arrogant little shit sometimes, like most teenagers. _I_ certainly was. And I’m sure that Uncle Sherry understood that. Vi told me he was glad that you were around, to be company for her.”

“Being here…” Sherlock swallowed hard, and looked briefly furious at himself. “I didn’t anticipate-“ he trailed off, and shut his eyes tightly.

“I know.” John said gently, sliding his hand into Sherlock’s hair and dragging his fingernails softly along the scalp behind his ear. “I know. And you know that we can leave, any time you want, right? We can go and visit Vi again in Edinburgh or she can come stay with us in London. She won’t _mind_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes for several more seconds, continuing to breathe deeply. Eventually he sighed quietly and shook his head. “No. Not… not yet, anyway. Let’s get to the bottom of the poisonings first. It might… help. Having something else to focus on, while I’m here.”

John resisted the urge to ask him if he were sure. He continued to idly stroke Sherlock’s scalp, feeling the familiar planes of his skull under the warm skin and dark hair. In the distance, the sound of a tractor began to echo through the glen as it rolled down the road behind them. 

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock briefly, feeling his mouth beginning to curve into a faint smile after a moment or two. He pressed his lips once more to Sherlock’s cool cheek and moved back behind the wheel, deeply relieved at the small but genuine smile that met his own hesitant one. 

“Sure you want to head over to the hospital now? We could go tomorrow instead.” he suggested, turning the key in the ignition as the tractor rounded the bend behind them.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said, in a determinedly airy tone. “After all, aren’t you more than a little curious about what happened between Violet and the dreaded Miss Argyle?”


	7. Chapter 7

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary was no different to a hundred other modern hospitals that John had visited over the years, a large squat box of a building on the outskirts of the large town. Sherlock walked silently beside him down the slightly grim yet bustling corridors, perhaps a little closer to John’s shoulder than usual. Other than this he showed little sign of distress and the expression on his face was more thoughtful than upset when John stole a glance or two. 

Brief enquiries at the main desk in reception had directed them to the third floor, and the hastily scribbled list of ward numbers in John’s hand led them first of all to Mrs. Duncan, the vicar’s wife.

The nurse at the nearest station frowned slightly at their sudden appearance, but went ahead of them into the six-bedded ward to see if Mrs. Duncan was willing to speak with them. Her cubicle was in the furthest corner from the door, and completely curtained off from view; unlike the other beds where several visitors were chatting with other patients. 

Curious eyes followed Sherlock and John down the ward, and one or two people downright stared when it became obvious whom they were visiting. 

The nurse pulled back the curtain halfway, leaving the cubicle largely concealed from the rest of the ward. A slender, rather washed out woman in her late fifties was feebly raising herself on her elbows and John hurriedly handed her the controls for elevating the bed. She smiled at him weakly, and after a moment or two of squinting at the buttons, she managed to face them. 

“I believe that you gentlemen are helping the police with the poisoning, then?” she asked, fussing a little fretfully with the collar of her knitted bed-jacket and looking between Sherlock and John anxiously.

“Yes, that’s right.” John said, sinking into the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the one that Sherlock had taken. “I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes.” He decided not to mention that they were yet to talk to a single member of the local police force, who probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear about external involvement in the case. 

“Mrs. Duncan, I believe that you were the first person to collapse?” Sherlock said quietly, drawing his chair a little closer to the bed.

She nodded, looking a little upset. “On Christmas eve, no less. It was dreadful, honestly! I had so much to do, what with helping arrange the flowers for the carol service and finishing ironing Charles’ cassock and baking the last of the mince pies for the party… it was all such a fuss!”

“Bad luck,” John agreed, wondering more than a little at her priorities. 

“It was so selfish of me, really.” Mrs. Duncan said, looking wretched. “I decided to put my feet up for ten minutes and finish my needlepoint before I got on with everything else. If only I’d bucked up and continued with my list of things to do, I would never have drunk the tonic water. It has taught me a great lesson, you may be sure of that.” she added, looking as if she wanted to make this point very clear. Her restless fingers had strayed to the rough sheets and cellular blanket on her bed and they twisted nervously in the layers of fabric. “I quite ruined Christmas because of it. The carol service was cancelled, in the end. Charles insisted on coming with me to the hospital. And the mince pies were never finished at all.”

“I hardly think that you need to worry about that, Mrs. Duncan.” Sherlock said, with such an unexpectedly kind note in his voice John fought the urge to turn and stare. “After all, you didn’t know that the tonic water was poisoned.”

Mrs. Duncan blinked rapidly, seeming disarmed by his gentle tone but nevertheless determined to berate herself. She patted her pale, slightly dishevelled hair distractedly. “But you see… it was a self-indulgent act that led to my downfall. Sloth and intemperance, one might say.” she said earnestly. “I don’t think the Lord would have accomplished much if He decided to sit down by the fire with a drink and some needlework, whenever He was required to continue His works.”

One could almost _hear_ the capital letters in Mrs. Duncan’s sentence.

Out of the corner of his eye John watched Sherlock press his lips together firmly, in what was clearly a herculean act of restraint. 

“Oh, er-“ he cast around a little wildly to try and get the conversation back on track just in case Sherlock decided to begin expounding on the innate irrationality of religion. “So, what sort of time did this happen then?”

“It was shortly after five o’clock,” she said thoughtfully. “Charles and I were listening to a wonderful radio version of _The Pilgrim’s Progress_ on radio four at the time. Charles was finishing signing Christmas cards for the parishioners, because he meant to give them out after the carol service. I began to feel rather odd quite quickly, but I didn’t want to make a fuss while Charles was so busy. But within a few minutes, the room began to sort of _spin_ around me and I began to perspire very badly.” She looked a little embarrassed at this, and hastily continued. “My mouth was dreadfully dry, so I tried to get up to get a glass of water but my silly legs didn’t seem to move properly. I suppose I fell on the floor at that point, but I really can’t remember what happened next. I don’t remember anything at all, really, until the next day when I woke up here in hospital.”

“Have the doctors told you what the poison was, Mrs. Duncan?” Sherlock asked, looking intrigued. 

“I think they might have, but I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. They spoke to Charles about it, though- I’m quite sure that he will remember. He’s so clever at remembering things...”

A casual glance at the end of Mrs. Duncan’s bed did not reveal the usual clipboard of notes in the bracket there. John glanced around the cubicle, and took in the bunches of flowers, bright potted poinsettias and cheerful greetings cards around her. “It’s obvious that your friends have been worried about you.”

Mrs. Duncan seemed even more upset at this. “Isn’t it dreadful? I’ve worried everyone so much! And poor Kathy, and PC Dalziell and Mr. Antonelli as well…”

“Kathy?” John asked. “Do you mean Miss Argyle?”

“Yes, poor thing. Apparently she and PC Dalziell were having a drink together before supper and they both collapsed at the same time. She and I were in charge of the flower arrangements for the carol service that evening; I’m sure she was most upset that they weren’t finished. She’s a dear friend,” Mrs Duncan added, in an almost defensive tone. 

“Mrs Duncan, do you know of anyone who might have wished to cause you some harm?” Sherlock asked, sitting back in his seat and stretching out his long legs in front of him. 

Mrs. Duncan’s eyes widened a little and she shook her head determinedly. “Of course not! I’m entirely sure that the whole business has been a terrible accident, Mr. Holmes.” She seemed more than a little shocked at the mere suggestion. “Nobody in Hilderbogie would _dream_ of doing such a wicked thing. Our village is full of decent, God-fearing people and nothing will convince me otherwise.”

“What do you think happened, then?” John asked, a little taken aback at her vehemence.

“It must have been an accident at the factory where the tonic was made.” Mrs. Duncan said firmly. “It’s the only possible explanation, and I’m sure that Mr. Figmaleery must be very sorry about it too – he sent us all beautiful flowers this morning.” she gestured towards a large bunch of Christmas roses and ornamental thistles on the nearby windowsill. 

“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Duncan.” Sherlock said, after staring at the bouquet curiously. “We won’t trouble you any further. Come along, John.”

***

After being informed sternly that PC Dalziell was asleep and not to be disturbed, John and Sherlock went in search of Mr. Antonelli, who was in a male ward at the end of a long dingy corridor. It was quieter at this end of the third floor, and John grimaced at the way his shoes were squeaking loudly as he followed Sherlock along the tired linoleum floor.

Turning a corner, a handful of female voices could be heard coming from the furthest end of the passage. On closer inspection, there were three figures sitting on a row of plastic chairs outside Mr. Antonelli’s ward. Three girls sat, two of them swinging their legs in tandem and the third curled up with a large book. 

The first two stared beadily at Sherlock and John as they approached, over folded arms. The other girl merely glanced over the top of her book before resuming her reading. 

Sherlock made to sweep into the room without addressing any of them, but the girl sitting nearest the door swiftly shot out a leg to block his way.

“Are you from the paper, Mister?” she asked suspiciously. Like her sister she was slight and dark haired, with impressively bushy eyebrows. They were not dressed alike, but the twins were utterly identical – John didn’t think that he could spot even a freckle’s difference between them. Sherlock raised one of his own not inconsiderable eyebrows and stared at the skinny leg barring his way before slowly turning to face the girl. She didn’t even blink at his scathing look. 

“Miss Antonelli, I presume?”

“ _Are_ you from the paper?” her sister asked insistently, presumably either Prunella or Arabella. 

“No, I am not.” Sherlock said brusquely. “Kindly remove your appendage from my path.”

“Are _you_ from the paper?” the first girl asked John, seeming slightly disappointed. He shook his head, bemused. “Bugger.” she muttered, deflating visibly. 

“We wanted to sell an exclusive story about our trauma and heartache to the tabloids.” Her sister explained mournfully. “Maybe accompanied by a photo of our brave tearstained wee faces.”

“That’ll cost extra, though.”

“Oh for pity’s sake!” the third girl snapped, dropping her book into her lap impatiently. “Look at the pair of them! They’re obviously the men from London Petty told us about. They’re pals with Miss Vernet.”

“Is Miss Vernet coming to see Dad?” One of the twins asked, brightening a little. “Is she bringing cakes?”

“'Cause he’s probably not allowed cakes, but _we_ are. So we could help with that.”

“Maybe she’ll bring cinder toffee! I bet he’s not allowed that either…”

“Shut _up_ , Pruny!” their sister glared. “You too, Rab. You’re Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson. How are you getting along with the case?”

The older girl couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but the sharp look she levelled at John and Sherlock was oddly adult. She was tall and lanky, and her long shaggy hair fell heavily into her large dark eyes. Rather uncharitably, she rather reminded John of a grumpy Shetland pony.

“We only arrived this morning.” John said placatingly, when Sherlock only stared imperiously at the Misses Antonelli. “And we want to talk to your dad for a minute or two. You’re Murdina, right?”

“Indeed.” Murdy Antonelli confirmed, unsmiling.

“Dad didnae do it.” Pruny interjected. 

“Although if we’d thought of it we might have stuck some castor oil into Miss Argyle’s clotted cream.” Rab said thoughtfully. 

“Maybe next time…” Pruny agreed. 

“Shut up, you two! What kind of eejit talks about poisoning folks in front of bloody detectives?!” Murdy snapped, looking sorely tried. “Pheemy and Griz are in there at the mo, but I’m sure Dad is bloody ready to see the back of them by now. I’ll tell them to shove off so you can have a word.” 

She got to her feet, and slouched past them into the ward after carefully marking a page in her large book. On closer inspection it turned out to be Machiavelli’s _The Prince_.

“We don’t want to _kill_ Miss Argyle.” Rab said, a little defensively. She drummed the heel of her boot into the leg of her chair crossly.

“Just give her a good case of the squits, that’s all.” said Pruny.

“Castor oil wouldn’t mix satisfactorily with clotted cream.” Sherlock said, absently peering after Murdy into the ward. “The flavour would be immediately noticeable.”

“Oh.” said the twins, disappointedly and in unison.

“Something flavoured with coffee or aniseed would probably work, though-“

“Sherlock!” John began, and was distracted by the sight of two more members of the Antonelli family emerging from the ward. He wasn’t quite sure if he was prepared for the encounter, if they were anything like the younger members. 

A mournful looking girl of around seventeen wandered out, her eyes swollen and brimming with tears. She was dressed in a rather sad, floppy floral dress under a long trailing cardigan and she sniffed convulsively as she came into the corridor. Rab and Pruny rolled their eyes theatrically. She was accompanied by another girl, strong jawed and short-haired and dressed in very sensible walking gear and boots. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of John and Sherlock, but nodded at them civilly enough.

“You’re going to prove that Daddy didn’t do it, aren’t you, Mister Holmes?” the elder girl said fretfully, rummaging in her cardigan pocket for a none-too-fresh looking tissue. She blew her nose loudly and hiccupped a little. “Please say you will.”

“Well it would certainly help if I could _speak_ to him,” Sherlock muttered darkly, eyeing the much-used tissue with evident disgust. “May we enter _now?_ ”

“Ooooooo!” said the twins, and giggled nastily.

Sherlock appeared to be grinding his teeth. He marched into the ward without another word, leaving John desperately trying to suppress a grin.

***

Mr. Antonelli was a thin, tired looking man with a mop of light brown curls shot with grey. He seemed to brighten up slightly at the sight of Sherlock advancing towards him, despite the affronted look still on the detective’s face. Murdy was awkwardly adjusting the pillows behind his head and he patted her hand affectionately before she drew away. 

“I’m alright, pet. Go on and make sure the twins don’t tease Pheemy too much, will you? You should all be going home for your tea soon, anyhow.”

“Alright.” Murdy said, looking determinedly blasé. “Want any books or papers or anything?”

“Och, no. You brought me plenty yesterday,” Mr. Antonelli said, rather hastily. “I’ll just have a little chat with these fellows now.”

Murdy looked rather like she would have liked to stoop and kiss her father, but turned and walked out rather abruptly after a small abortive movement in his direction. Something about this tiny movement made some small part of John ache, just a little. It took him a moment to collect himself and to return Mr. Antonelli’s kind smile.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Antonelli said, gesturing towards the seat next to his bed. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that Miss Vernet asked you to come and help.”

“It was atropine poisoning, I suspect?” Sherlock said, without preamble. 

John rolled his eyes and sat down next to him. “I’m John Watson, Mr. Antonelli.” he said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand gently. He looked rather fragile, but he clasped John’s hand firmly. 

“Oh, er- yes. Yes, it was.” Mr. Antonelli said, a little taken aback. “You’ve spoken to the doctors, then?”

“No, but we just spoke with Mrs. Duncan who described symptoms consistent with atropine poisoning. Sweating, giddiness, dry mouth, loss of balance. Alkaline. Did your vision blur rapidly?”

“It did,” Mr Antonelli said, the smile swiftly fading from his face. “I closed the shop early on Christmas Eve, and I was having a wee drink while I was stuffing the turkey. Murdy was in the kitchen with me, reading out the crossword clues. I must have scared the life out of her when I ended up on the floor like that.”

“She called an ambulance?”

“Yes, straight away. She’s got her head on straight, thank god. As it turned out, there was already an ambulance in the area because of poor Mrs. Duncan. We ended up coming to Aberdeen together. I didn’t hear about Dalziell or Miss Argyle til the next morning.” He swallowed hard, and stared down at his hands. “The tonic came from my shop, I do know that. I personally sold it to each of them, apart from poor Mrs. Duncan. Petty sold that bottle to the Reverend the day before Christmas Eve. I hadn’t many bottles in stock. I hope to goodness the police have recalled all the other bottles I sold – there must have been a few more. And Miss Vernet-“ Mr Antonelli broke off, looking appalled. “Oh, Lord! Mr Brodie came in to pick up some things for when she got back from her trip to Morocco. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.”

“She didn’t arrive until after the others collapsed.” John assured him. “She knew not to drink the tonic water.”

“Yes, we inspected the bottle. It was definitely poisoned as well.” Sherlock said thoughtfully, paying no heed to the way Mr Antonelli swallowed and paled a little at this. “So at least five bottles were poisoned.”

“Four, anyway.” Mr Antonelli corrected him, almost apologetically. “From what I’ve heard, Dalziell and Miss Argyle were at his house together. I only sold a bottle to Miss Argyle, not Dalziell. I think they must have shared it.”

“So Violet had a bottle, as did Mrs. Duncan, PC Dalziell and Miss Argyle, and you, Mr. Antonelli.” 

“Yes. And I just can’t figure out how it can have happened!” Mr Antonelli looked wretched. “There were twelve bottles in the case. It was delivered on the twentieth, direct from Figmaleery’s. I’ve never had any trouble with them before. I’ve stocked the stuff for nearly two years now, and nobody has ever complained at all. Not once!”

“Are you aware of anyone who would want to cause you harm?” John asked gently. 

Antonelli shook his head. “There must be someone, but I can’t for the life of me think who it could be. I live a pretty quiet life up here, have done for years.”

“You moved to Hilderbogie from Stirling some time ago.” Sherlock said from behind steepled fingers. “Eighteen years?”

Mr. Antonelli raised his eyebrows a little but nodded. John suspected that Violet must have warned him about Sherlock’s manner, as he didn’t seem particularly nonplussed by the detective. “Yes, with my late wife. I’d worked for her Dad in Stirling, but we’d always wanted to open our own place, somewhere quiet where we could raise the children. Poor Nora died when wee Rab and Pruny were only two. People in Hilderbogie have been great, though – always ready to lend a hand. Seven daughters can be a bit of a handful at times.”

“Why do you call him Dalziell?” Sherlock said suddenly, frowning slightly. 

“What?” Mr Antonelli frowned back at him, confused.

“You called the constable _Dalziell_ just now. You just said _Miss_ Vernet, _Miss_ Argyle, _Mrs_ Duncan. You’re clearly fond of my cousin, you’ve known her for years and you still refer to her formally. Why doesn’t PC Dalziell get the same treatment?”

“Oh, er…” Mr Antonelli seemed to struggle internally for a moment, and then sighed. “Look, I try to get along with everyone, right? You have to, in my line of work. But I don’t have much time for the PC.”

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked, interested. He leant forward expectantly, and sighed at the grocer’s uncertain expression. “Oh, come on. He has _obviously_ offended you in some way, any fool could see it.”

Mr Antonelli bit his lip and seemed to come to a decision. He glanced around and lowered his voice before saying: “He takes things.”

“From your shop?” John asked, surprised. 

Mr Antonelli nodded. “It’s ridiculous, really. It’s small stuff, a teacake here; a jar of jam there. It took me a while to be sure, but things are always missing after he comes in. It’s nothing worth making a fuss about; and I can hardly go around accusing the local cop of stealing caramel wafers. I try to keep an eye on him when he’s in the shop, but there’s not much I can do about it. It’s… it’s _aggravating_. But,” he said, his eyes widening as if struck by a sudden thought. “But I’d certainly never try and poison him over it.” 

“Interesting.” Sherlock mused, and then caught John’s meaningful look. “Don’t worry, Mr Antonelli; I’m reasonably sure that theft of confectionery wouldn’t stand up in court as motivation for attempted murder.”

“Oh, good.” said Mr Antonelli, relaxing a fraction. 

“And now, I rather think we should go and speak with Miss Argyle before visiting hours are over.” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. “Oh,” he added, seeming to remember something and delving into one of the inner pockets of his coat. “My cousin asked me to pass these along.”

He handed over a paperback book and a rather fancy looking tin of Turkish Delight. Mr Antonelli seemed to melt a little and he almost looked as if he wanted to clasp the rather lurid looking novel to his heart. 

“Oh thank _god._ Murdy brought me all sorts of things to read, but I’m not entirely sure that _The Origin of Species_ or _Finnegans’ Wake_ quite fit the bill at the moment. You’ll give my very best to Miss Vernet, won’t you?”

***

The nurse on duty at the desk nearest Miss Argyle’s ward was clearly a consummate professional, but her expression veered briefly towards doubtful when they asked to speak with her.

“Miss _Kathy_ Argyle?” she asked, seeming curious. “You’re, um _sure?_ ”

With more than a little trepidation, John followed her into the ward, which was oddly empty. In fact only one of the six beds were occupied. A small woman was sitting bolt upright in the middle of the ward, carefully smoothing down the sheets of her bed. She seemed determined that the covers would form perfectly aligned angles before she could face visitors. 

At first glance, Miss Argyle was quite sweet looking. She was in her early forties, with carefully arranged strawberry blonde hair and wide pale blue eyes. She wore a rather old fashioned quilted bed jacket over a high-necked white cotton nightgown, and a small well-thumbed bible lay open in her lap. 

“I understand that you two gentlemen are here to get to the bottom of the business with the tonic water.” she said, graciously indicating that they should sit down. 

“Yes, Miss Argyle. I’m Sherlock, and this is my colleague Dr. Watson.” Sherlock said, clearly deciding to omit his surname in case it was connected with the Hilderbogie Estate. 

Miss Argyle gave him an appraising look. “You’re up from England, I take it, Mr. Sherlock?”

“Yes, from London in fact.” John agreed, and she gave him a small tight smile as he took a seat. “I hope you’re recovering well?”

Miss Argyle pursed her lips slightly. “One certainly _hopes_ that the doctors are doing their best. Deadly Nightshade, if you can credit it.”

“You certainly had a lucky escape. Atropine poisoning can very easily be fatal.” Sherlock said brightly. 

“I’m certainly not setting foot in Hector Antonelli’s shop ever again.” said Miss Argyle sharply. “How that man hasn’t been arrested yet, I simply do not understand. At the very least he is absolutely guilty of criminal negligence, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had meant to do it all along.”

Mr Antonelli hadn’t exactly struck John as a criminal mastermind, but he tried to look encouraging. Sherlock on the other hand looked honestly intrigued at what she was saying, and seemed to be hanging on her every word. She preened a little.

“Or one of his daughters. It’s entirely possible it was a conspiracy, of course.” Miss Argyle said knowledgably. “Those girls are _completely_ out of control, it’s an utter disgrace the way they run amok. I had to insist that Arabella and Prunella Antonelli were permanently excluded from Sunday School earlier this year. One certainly hopes that they have learnt their lesson.”

John thought about the rowdy twins he had met earlier, and swiftly concluded that it was rather unlikely that they would have been very upset at being expelled from bible studies.

“Goodness. What did they do?” Sherlock asked wide-eyed and sympathetic. He leant forward slightly, and Miss Argyle flushed a little at the increased proximity. 

“It was an _outrage._ ” she whispered darkly. “They had the absolute _gall_ to giggle during the invaluable lessons from the Book of Leviticus. They disrupted the entire lesson, and eventually…” she shut her eyes tightly as if drawing on some reservoir of internal strength. “Prunella distracted me while that little imp Arabella sneaked behind my chair and pretended to look at the label at the back of my dress. She declared, entirely untruthfully, that my dress was made of cotton and wool, and therefore the class should unite and _stone_ me. To death! On the village bowling green!”

“How dreadful.” Sherlock murmured sadly, letting the heel of his shoe land heavily on John’s instep. Without moving his gaze from Miss Argyle’s face he seemed to have sensed that John was seconds away from giggling. John tried not to wince and nodded as sympathetically as he could. 

(Oh, god. Um. Dead puppies. _Dead puppies_. Don’t fucking laugh!)

“They came under a bad influence, those girls.” Miss Argyle continued, her face twisting slightly. “It’s only to be expected, what with no mother to discipline them. And I blame myself in part, I really do.”

“Surely not!”

Miss Argyle shuddered slightly and nodded jerkily. “It’s true. I unknowingly invited a serpent into our midst-“

She broke off, and glared at the nurse nervously holding a tray at the end of her bed. The woman swallowed hard and made a brave attempt at a cheerful smile. “Excuse me, Miss Argyle? I’ve got some more tablets for you to take now.” 

“You’re _late_.” Miss Argyle said coldly, glancing at the nearby clock on the wall. “I should have been given those five minutes ago.”

“Sorry about that,” the nurse said, hitching up her smile a little. “It won’t make any difference in the efficacy though, so please don’t worry.”

Miss Argyle snorted and held out her hand for the drugs in their tiny paper cup. “It is simply outrageous how one needs to keep an eye on the staff in this place. I’ve been careful to lock my handbag up, one never knows what these nurses get up to.”

The unfortunate nurse froze for a moment, before handing over the glass of water from her tray. John winced slightly and carefully bit his tongue. 

When the nurse was walking away, Miss Argyle remarked, rather too loudly: “One simply doesn’t know where they get them from. You can barely understand a _word_ they say, with those accents.”

“Do tell us about this awful serpent, Miss Argyle,” said Sherlock quickly, seeming to sense that John had just opened his mouth to protest. “It sounds terrible.”

Miss Argyle nodded, leaning towards Sherlock minutely. John was still fighting the urge to glare at her and settled for raising an eyebrow. (She’s bloody well _flirting_ with him. Hateful fucking bint!)

“You won’t know about this, not being from the area. But there’s a woman who stays at the big house from time to time. She was married to one of the Holmes family, years ago, and the poor man died _very_ shortly afterwards. She inherited the place, and plays the grand lady of the manor when it suits her. But she is an _immoral woman_.”

“Gosh!” Sherlock exclaimed in horror.

“Indeed. I’m afraid that I was taken in by her at first; for she can be very charming when she wishes to be. She has quite a reputation for cookery and sewing, and I thought that she might be a suitable substitute for myself during our ‘Womanly Arts’ classes for girls at the parish hall. I sprained my wrist last year, and was unable to take part.”

“She _didn’t_ teach them cooking and sewing?” Sherlock asked, wide-eyed. John was quite tempted to kick him.

“Oh, she did. For perhaps half an hour. And after that…” Miss Argyle appeared to be grinding her teeth. “She then proceeded to teach these poor impressionable young girls about basic financial investments, which was not covered in my carefully selected curriculum. But it got worse! She then went on to show them how to use _violence_ against others. And after that…” Miss Argyle seemed to be having trouble getting the words out through her gritted teeth. “She taught them about unnatural methods of… _contraception_.” she whispered the last word as if it were the most disgusting swearword she could speak of. “The poor children, I can’t imagine how she must have _scarred_ them.”

“Shocking.” Sherlock agreed solemnly, although John could have sworn that he saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Dreadful.”

“So, you see the kind of influence those Antonelli girls have been under. That Woman has been a friend of their family for years and I know for a fact that she has continued her interference in their lives. She gives them unsuitable reading material and seems to think it _funny_ when they question and contradict their elders. I am entirely sure that at least one member of that unfortunate family is behind the poisonings, and it will be in no small part due to _her_ meddling!” 

Small flecks of spit flew from the corner of her mouth as she became more and more incensed, and rather than being merely shocked and bemused John began to feel seriously uneasy in her presence.

“Where do you think that the Antonellis would have gotten the atropine from, Miss Argyle?” he asked, after opening and closing his mouth several times. 

Miss Argyle looked triumphant. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Deadly Nightshade. It’s also known as _Belladonna_. It’s an _Italian_ poison, don’t you see?”

“Oh. I, er. I see…” John said quietly, fighting an impulse to back away slowly without making sudden movements. “Um. Right.”

“So you were with PC Dalziell at the time, Miss Argyle?” Sherlock said, still managing to retain his beautifully concerned expression. 

(How the hell does he manage to _do_ that?!)

Miss Argyle nodded. “Yes, Jimmy was going to help me carry some vases over to the church hall before we attended the carol service together. He was off duty, of course, when he suggested a very small drink. It was a special occasion, you see.”

“Well, I think in the festive season we all enjoy a little treat now and then…” Sherlock smiled conspiratorially.

“Oh, but this was particularly special.” Miss Argyle said, a little coyly. “You see, we had just become engaged that very afternoon!”

“How nice for you both!”

“And it was all simply _ruined_ by those wretched Antonellis!” Miss Argyle hissed, seeming unable to stay away from her anger. “I haven’t even seen poor Jimmy since then, every time I’ve tried to see him he’s been asleep. Still fighting off the effects of the poison, no doubt.”

(Or the poor bugger is unwilling to deal with the likes of _you_ , you rotten cow.)

“Tragic.” Sherlock said sadly, and straightened up a little. “Well, Miss Argyle, you’ve been tremendously helpful. Thank you _so_ much for speaking with us.”

John couldn’t quite bring himself to echo Sherlock’s sentiments as he got to his feet. His skin seemed to crawl a little in the woman’s presence, and he just wanted to get away from her, to breathe clean air. 

“Oh must you go so soon, Mr. Sherlock?” Miss Argyle asked, watching Sherlock elegantly unfold himself from the chair at her bedside. Her pale eyes seemed to be taking in the breath of his shoulders and the clever movements of his long fingers as he looped his scarf around his throat. 

He flashed a sudden smile at her that was full of knives. “Oh yes, we must get back to dear Cousin Violet’s house. I have a very busy schedule, you see.”

“Your… cousin… Violet?” Miss Argyle said, the coy expression giving way to dawning horror. “Violet _Vernet?_ ”

“Yes, indeed. She said that dinner was at eight, but before then I have plans to take Dr. Watson here to bed. I rather think I should make amends for making him listen to your ridiculous bile, Miss Argyle.” Sherlock’s grin was rather ghastly to behold, and Miss Argyle stared between him and John with mounting disgust. 

John was torn between burying his face in his hands and dissolving into giggles, and settled for giving Miss Argyle a bright smile. “That’s right. He’s going to have to make it up to me for _ages_. We might even be late for dinner.”

“Steady on, John.” Sherlock murmured disapprovingly. “There’s plenty of time for more unnatural acts later tonight.”

“Get out of my sight _this minute, you filthy creatures!”_ Miss Argyle spat, her eyes wide with revulsion. She clutched the perfectly arranged sheets to her heaving chest, and pointed at the doorway with a quivering finger. “At _once!”_

“With great pleasure, Miss Argyle.” Sherlock bowed slightly and swept from the room with his arm around John’s shoulders. They made it several feet down the gloomy corridor before John sagged against a nearby wall. Helplessly, he gave in to the faintly hysterical laughter that had been threatening to overwhelm him since Sherlock had cast off his sympathetic mask. Sherlock stared at him for a moment or two, looking amused and a little curious. He leant against the wall next to John and looked down at him with a fond grin. 

“I’m… sorry… about that.” he murmured, reaching out to squeeze John’s shoulder gently as he collapsed against him. John wasn’t really sure what he was apologising for, but wasn’t quite capable of speech just yet. 

It took him several seconds to pull himself together, his forehead pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder. He eventually pulled away, and wiped his streaming eyes. “Wh-what? That was _brilliant!_ The look on her rotten little _face!”_

“You don’t… mind?” Sherlock frowned a little, looking down at him. 

“Mind what, you daft git?”

“I knew that she would react like that. I knew… that she’d be disgusted at me. At us. And I said it anyway, to score a point.”

“Why should I care what she thinks?” John stared up at Sherlock in surprise. “She’s a miserable harpy who obviously disapproves of everyone and everything.”

“But… you’ve never encountered that before.” Sherlock said slowly, for some reason feeling the need to rearrange John’s shirt collar. He smoothed the faintly crumpled fabric flat with a gesture that felt vaguely apologetic. “You’ve never had someone-“

“Oh.” John breathed out, with sudden realisation. “Oh, I see-“

Sherlock nodded. “I just thought… well. I should probably say sorry.”

John frowned, staring at one of Sherlock’s white shirt buttons as he thought. Yes, he supposed it was the first time anyone had overtly been disgusted at the idea of him and Sherlock being together. In time, Miss Argyle would probably have found an interesting variety of reasons for disapproving of him, even without knowing that particular fact. But she probably wouldn’t be the last to judge them that way. He knew in his heart that his own dad wouldn’t have been thrilled about it, if he were still around. 

But the fact that Sherlock felt the need to apologise for this? There were many, many things that the detective could apologise to John for; big and small. The continuing presence of the human femurs in the cutlery drawer at 221B for a start. His complete disregard for anyone’s privacy but his own. The way he saw no problem in waking John up at 4am to tell him about a particularly fascinating thought he’d had about blood coagulation. Why suddenly decide to start now?

“You don’t have to say sorry for what she said.” John said slowly, taking hold of the lapel of Sherlock’s coat. “That’s her problem, not ours. I’m a grown man, Sherlock. I’ve dealt with stupid bigots before, just in different scenarios. But I think I’m probably lucky that I didn’t have to deal with that when I was younger and a bit more thin-skinned. Like I expect you probably did, right?”

Sherlock was wooden faced for a moment, before sighing and nodding reluctantly. “Occasionally. I don’t want you to…” he trailed off. John’s heart clenched a little, reading the brief flash of remembered hurt in Sherlock’s face. 

“You don’t want me to have to go through that.” John finished for him. He tugged absently at Sherlock’s coat and smiled at him gently. “It’s alright. It’ll probably happen again some time. I’m _fine_ , you ridiculous man. Come on, let’s get going. We do want to fit in some of those unnatural acts before dinner, right?” he held Sherlock’s gaze until he saw the corner of his mouth curl into a small grin, and kissed him abruptly. 

Sherlock reached out and wrapped John in his arms, oddly careful. They stayed like that for a long moment, until the sound of giggling caused them to break apart. 

“Ooooooo!” 

The Antonelli twins wolf whistled raucously from behind the nearest nurses station, before bolting down the corridor towards the stairs. “Get a _room_ , laddies!” 

John stifled a laugh. As a faint grinding sound commenced, he seriously began to fear for the state of Sherlock’s teeth.


	8. Chapter 8

Aberdeen had descended into pitch blackness once again by the time John and Sherlock walked out of the revolving doors of the hospital. The temperature had dropped several degrees further and the air was searingly cold when John inhaled his first lungful of it. 

Once they had pulled away from the dirty orange glow of streetlights and started heading into the blackness of the countryside the stars in the clear sky overhead became apparent, dazzling in their numbers. John inched down the icy rural roads slowly, his eyes constantly straying above the snow covered hills and forest to marvel at the constellations washed over the inky sky.

The old car was chilly, even with the elderly heaters on full. Sherlock slipped off his coat and insisted that John put it on, before rummaging around in the back seat of the car. He pulled out the old fur rug and swathed himself in it, much to John’s amusement.

“So, what do you think so far?” John asked, after a few miles of companionable silence. “About the case, I mean. Obviously, Miss Argyle is barking; but do you think any of the Antonelli’s could be involved?”

“Those abominable twins, perhaps.” Sherlock muttered darkly. “And I certainly can imagine that they would benefit from a long spell at her majesty’s pleasure.”

John grinned at the road ahead and slowed the car as they crossed a narrow stone bridge over a frozen burn. 

Sherlock hummed meditatively and huddled deeper into the rug. “While the Antonelli’s certainly had opportunity, their motives are weak. I don’t think that he or any of his daughters would have poisoned PC Dalziell for his pilfering or Miss Argyle for her attitude. And I certainly don’t believe that any of those girls would have poisoned their father. Their level of sentiment was all too evident, although it was displayed in a variety of different ways.”

“How about Mrs Duncan?” John wondered. “She’s a bit odd, but she seems like a fairly blameless sort.”

“A strange woman,” Sherlock agreed thoughtfully. “Did you notice the strangest thing about her, though?”

John cast his mind back, recalling the upset and rather colourless woman behind the curtains of her cubicle. “Well, kind of a god-botherer, I suppose-“

“No, never mind that. Do you remember when she referred to Miss Argyle? She called that wretched woman ‘a dear friend’.”

“Mmm. Yes, I suppose that is a bit weird. She seemed like a gentle sort of soul; why would she put up with Argyle’s nonsense?” John thought some more. “Maybe she hasn’t got too many friends in the village. Maybe she thinks that she can’t be too fussy.”

“The _flowers_ , John!” Sherlock sighed. “Remember the flowers. And the cards. She had far more than anyone else. Miss Argyle only had that bunch of roses and thistles sent by Figmaleery’s distillery on her locker. Mr Antonelli had the same, as well as several cards and a couple of plants. People obviously _care_ about Mrs Duncan, despite her blithering about the almighty. She maintains that the whole episode has been an accident, because she can’t believe that anyone in Hilderbogie would want to poison her.”

“Could she be right?” John wondered, and continued hastily before Sherlock could do more than roll his eyes. “No, shut up! Hear me out. I accept that there was foul play, as evidenced by the injected poison. Obviously, that couldn’t have been an accident. But who’s to say that the contamination didn’t happen at Figmaleery’s? Who’s to say that it wasn’t just a mental employee who poisoned the tonic, and it was a random chance that the bottles ended up in Hilderbogie, rather than Inverness or Glasgow or anywhere else?”

“The _flowers_ , John. If Figmaleery’s had the faintest suspicion that they were behind the poisoning, they would never have sent _flowers_ to the victims. They would have called in lawyers immediately and would never have sent anything that would suggest any kind of apology or culpability. The flowers were a PR exercise, not an apology. I’ve looked them up; they’re a tiny family company outside Lerwick, only five staff and all of them hold shares in the company. Although it’s not impossible, it’s unlikely that a suspicious member of staff would go unnoticed.

“Furthermore, it appears that only four of the bottles out of a case of twenty were poisoned. That’s a rather odd number; if the atropine was injected at the factory, why would an anonymous poisoner stop themselves at just four when there’s another sixteen bottles right next to them, begging to be contaminated?”

“Alright, alright-“

“Oh you might as well listen, I’m nearly finished.” Sherlock interrupted blithely. “And finally, there’s the question of the _bubbles_ , John. Hector Antonelli said that the tonic was delivered on the twentieth, which means that at the very latest, taking packaging and delivery times into account, it was bottled by the fifteenth of December. Probably well before then, though – the company will have had an increase in orders over the supposedly festive season and will have produced more tonic water in advance. The bottle at Violet’s had obviously been going flat by the time we opened it, due to the escape of carbon dioxide through the cork. If the bottles had been contaminated any earlier than, say, the twenty third of December; they would have had barely any fizz at all left; and it would be unlikely that all of the victims would have drunk flat tonic water. Ergo, it was poisoned in Antonelli’s shop.”

“Alright, you’re brilliant. Well done.”

“It’s not quite the same when you say it like _that._ ” Sherlock muttered sulkily. 

***

Hilderbogie house seemed slightly more welcoming in appearance than it had done earlier in the chilly morning light. Light glowed through many of the small windows, casting oblong patches of light on the snowy ground and frozen gravel of the driveway. Two large carriage lanterns containing hefty candles were perched on either side of the grand front door, lighting their way up the worn stone steps. 

“I can’t believe you never told me that your family had a _castle_.” John grinned, pushing open one of the doors. He made his way swiftly over to the massive fireplace in the vaulted hall and began to slowly unthaw. 

Sherlock snorted dismissively. “It’s hardly a _castle_ , John. It’s a fortified house with a couple of superfluous turrets slapped on by the wretched Victorians. Architecturally it’s rather mediocre. Frankly, I never understood why my great-grandparents bought the place.” He slipped off his leather gloves, staring around at the gloomy hall which was now dimly lit by several lamps and lanterns. “It’ll probably be turned into some ghastly hotel, full of tartan carpets and Americans within the next fifty years.”

John held his hands as close to the flames as he could stand, feeling the heat beginning to seep back into his body. “You don’t feel any kind of an attachment to it?”

Sherlock shrugged, running a long finger along the ornate edge of a gilt picture frame. “It’s just a house. I didn’t like it much as a child, because my grandmother was always telling me not to leave marks on the wallpaper or to stop getting mud on the floors. I’ve never much liked the countryside for it’s own sake. _Dull_. I really only spent considerable amounts of time here after Violet arrived; I suppose that was the only time I really enjoyed the place.”

“And that wasn’t about the house.” John mused, watching the steam rising from his boots with idle amusement. “I know it’s supposed to go to Mycroft after Violet but since she’s younger than him, that’s hardly going to happen, right?”

“Mm. Well, technically it would go to my father after Violet; but as she’s barely forty and quite obnoxiously healthy that’s highly unlikely. Father, then Mycroft, then me. But we’re all so close in age it’s unlikely to make any difference. After we all die, it will probably be sold off. I think there are some distant relations in Nova Scotia who will inherit whatever is left after the death duties.” 

Sherlock said this in such an utterly blasé tone that it made John grin a little. “So you don’t mind about the tartan carpets and Americans, then?”

“We’ll all be dead, so why should it matter?” Sherlock shrugged, and grabbed John’s wrist. “Come along, you’ve warmed up. We have approximately seventy minutes before dinner, and I’m planning on making the most of them.” He began to tow John swiftly towards the wide staircase. “I have to make good on my promise to Miss Argyle, after all…”

***

They found Violet lounging next to the fire in the drawing room shortly before eight, wearing a lavishly embroidered navy cocktail dress and a pensive expression. She brightened at the sight of them, and sat up on the Persian hearthrug, tapping some ash from her black and gold cigarette into the grate.

It was a beautiful room, darkly panelled up to waist height and then wallpapered in deepest indigo up to the high moulded ceiling. Several faded Japanese prints in simple frames punctuated the walls, and the curtains and upholstery were of heavy silk brocade. The mantelpiece over the white marble fireplace was littered with small carved ivory figures and tiny intricate glass bottles in varying shades of blue.

“About bloody time, you gits! There’s a time and a place for fornicating all over the joint; but cocktail hour is _not_ it.” She gestured towards the drinks cabinet next to the heavily curtained windows. “Make me a G &T while you’re at it, will you?”

Sherlock obligingly turned to the well-stocked mahogany cabinet and reached for the gin. John did his best to quell the blush from his face as he sank into one of the wing-backed armchairs next to the fireplace. Violet grinned up at him cheekily, hugging her knees.

“Stop trying to embarrass John, you baggage.” Sherlock said, without turning around. “It’s _far_ too easy.”

“Well not much bloody point even trying, with you.” Violet pointed out, with the air of one who had tried and failed many times. 

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed, crossing the room and handing John and Violet a heavy glass tumbler apiece. 

“Although…” Violet brightened up a little, and leant closer to John. She spoke in a stage whisper as Sherlock took a seat opposite him. “-did he ever tell you about the time he tried to create a Philosopher’s-“

“Utter nonsense, I attempted nothing of the kind.” Sherlock said, a little too hastily. “Anyway, we should talk about the case.”

“Should we?” Violet grinned maliciously. “I think I could probably find some of your old notes from the time-“

John took a sip of his drink and slouched back in his armchair, not bothering to conceal the small contented grin that had somehow appeared on his face. He was tired, relaxed and sated after the previous hour he and Sherlock had spent hidden away in his old boyhood bedroom. 

He loved watching Violet tease Sherlock. Her carefully arranged copper curls glinted gold in the firelight, and her eyes gleamed as she beamed impudently up at Sherlock from the floor. Sherlock for his part was attempting to look haughty and dismissive, but not even he could entirely suppress the fondness in his expression or the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he regarded his cousin.

“-not to mention the scorch marks all the way up the wall…”

“Never mind the scorch marks!” Sherlock snapped. “And it wasn’t a Philosopher’s Stone, don’t be absurd!”

Violet nodded solemnly, reaching out to pat his knee. He batted her away crossly, curling his long legs up on the chair beneath him. 

“Oh, alright. Tell Auntie Vi all about the case,” Violet said soothingly, and lit a new cigarette. 

“We didn’t get to speak with PC Dalziell, apparently the man was _sleeping_.” Sherlock said in a tone of disgust. “But we spoke with Mrs Duncan, Mr Antonelli and Miss Argyle. The latter, incidentally, referred to you as both a ‘serpent’ and ‘an immoral woman’.”

“Gosh!” Violet exclaimed delightedly. 

“Yes, well done. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am, rather.”

“We met a few of the younger Antonelli’s, actually.” John interjected, remembering the twins with a grin. 

“Aren’t they _marvellous_?!” Violet hooted, evidently reading his thoughts. “The twins are a public menace. Clever as anything too, although they’ve evidently decided to use their powers for evil for the time being.”

“It’s a choice that must come to us all.” Sherlock acknowledged. “Apparently you’ve been giving them unsuitable reading material?”

“Well, that depends on your definition of unsuitable, clearly.” Violet replied seriously. “But I’ve been holding off on giving them a copy of _The Anarchist’s Cookbook_ until they turn thirteen. I’m not totally irresponsible, you know.”

“Hmm.”

“Murdy, though. She’s an interesting one.” Violet said thoughtfully, flopping back down on one of the cushions that littered the hearthrug. “I think she’d burn down the whole village if it meant she’d get out of it. Understandable, really – it’s not easy being stuck in the country when all you want to do is get to the nearest city you can find. She got a scholarship to a boarding school in Edinburgh last year, but her dad wouldn’t hear of it. Said she was too young to leave home. Shame, really. She barely spoke for a month afterwards. Apparently Mr Brodie found her in the old treehouse in the west garden, throwing knives at the wall.”

“Any good?” Sherlock asked, interested.

“No, appalling.” Violet said, disapprovingly. “Shocking aim. I think she needs glasses. And lessons, obviously. I’ve given her free run of the main library here, and she helps exercise the horses in return. Griz helps with the horses too, now and again. Nice girl, although I’m fairly sure that she wouldn’t recognise a book if it bit her on the bum.”

“Miss Argyle thought that the Antonellis must be behind the poisonings, because they’re Italian.” John interjected. 

“Oh, Deadly Nightshade! Fascinating.” Violet said, perking up. 

“Atropine.” Sherlock clarified, taking a sip of his drink. “The bottles were undoubtedly poisoned at Mr Antonelli’s shop, but it seems unlikely that any of the family were responsible. Those members that I’ve met, at least. Is the eldest girl a likely candidate?” 

Violet shook her head at once. “Toni wasn’t around. She’s been in Umbria with her grandparents for Christmas and only got home yesterday. She goes to Uni in Glasgow, and hasn’t been back to Hilderbogie since October. Can’t imagine a motive, and no possible opportunity.”

“So we must conclude that it was an outsider in the shop, probably a customer.” Sherlock mused. “I can’t imagine that there’s many more shops in Hiderbogie than there were twenty years ago?”

Violet shook her head. “No, still as tiny as ever. There’s Antonelli’s, the two pubs, the post office, the bakery and a drapers that sells clothes that you’d only wear if you were a hundred years dead. Antonelli’s is the only grocers in the place, so practically everyone goes there. The nearest supermarket is thirty miles away, and it’s pretty rubbish.”

“So that narrows our list of suspects down to pretty much the whole village, then?” John mused.

“Well, that’s only about a hundred people.” Violet said, comfortingly. 

“Far fewer than that.” Sherlock sighed despairingly. “If we can narrow the list down to the number of customers who visited the shop since the contaminated tonic was delivered on the 20th of December, that leaves us with a much smaller pool of suspects.”

“Probably possible.” Violet conceded, swallowing the last of her G&T with relish. “They still use a ledger system for sales-“ she stopped suddenly, sitting bolt upright. “Hang on. Did you hear that?”

“What?” John asked, listening hard. He hadn’t heard anything; but a glance at Sherlock confirmed that the detective had heard something too. 

Violet got to her feet and ducked behind one of the heavy curtains, cupping her hands around her eyes so that she could see out into the blackness of the grounds. “Thought so. There’s a car coming down the hill. Who the hell could that be at this hour?”

“One of the staff?”

“Not this late, they’ll have gone home for their tea hours ago. I only have a couple of char ladies who come in to clean in the mornings, and they leave by noon.” Violet made room at the window for Sherlock, who elbowed her out of the way. 

“It’s a four wheel drive. Not being driven terribly well, either.” he remarked. “And obviously not by a local.”

John craned his neck to see over Sherlock’s shoulder, watching the approaching lights coming down the hill. Within a minute, a large snow-dusted black jeep rolled onto the driveway and came to a halt at the bottom of the stone steps. The headlights dimmed as the engine died, and it was impossible to see anything more than dim outlines in the darkness.

“Well, we better go and see who’s decided to grace us with their presence.” Violet frowned, turning and making her way swiftly towards the door of the drawing room. Curiously, John followed her down the echoing corridor, turning into the cavernous hall. Sherlock followed at a leisurely pace, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked completely uninterested in whom the stranger could be. 

Violet swung open one of the heavy double doors, and shivered in the ensuing blast of icy air and fluttering snowflakes. She gave a shout of surprised laughter, and stood to one side to permit whomever it was. “Blimey, it’s you! Get inside, you poor thing!”

Patrick Singh appeared from the snow, wrapped in a long overcoat and a deep red scarf. The tip of his nose and ears were pink from the cold, but apart from that he was as impeccable as ever. Even the snowflakes in his long hair and on his shoulders looked as if they had been placed there for effect. 

He smiled and greeted Violet with an armful of pink and orange roses tied with white velvet ribbon, dropping an expensive looking leather valise on the floor. “Violet, do forgive me. I tried to ring you, but I… I just couldn’t get through. I hope you don’t mind such a late arrival.”

“Don’t be daft, Patrick!” Violet smiled, looking charmed at the bouquet and even more so at Patrick’s faint uncertainty. “It’s lovely to see you. You’re just in time for dinner, too.”

She placed the roses carefully on the hall table and held out her arms to him. After a moment, Patrick bent down and hugged her back. The expression on his handsome face briefly resembled the deepest relief as he took Violet in his arms. He seemed to be breathing a little more easily as he pulled away from her, and he abruptly kissed her cheek, as if on impulse. 

John arranged his face into a cheerful smile and stepped forward to shake Patrick’s hand in welcome. “Patrick, er, nice to see you again.”

“You too, Dr Watson.” Patrick smiled down at him, covering his hand with both of his own. John forced himself to take note of the fact that Singh’s smile seemed entirely genuine. (And not snooty at all. See? Not a _complete_ git.) 

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Please start calling me John.” he said, squeezing his hand. 

“And Mr. Holmes, too! Good to see you again.” He turned politely to Sherlock with an outstretched hand.

“Patrick.” Sherlock nodded coolly. He shook the man’s hand when it was offered, although perhaps there was the slightest moment of hesitation in the movement. John did his absolute best not to watch Patrick carefully as he greeted Sherlock. He absolutely did _not_ check whether it seemed any warmer than the handshake he himself had received. 

(Huh. Well, good. Doesn’t seem like it. This time.)

Violet reached out to ease Patrick’s coat from his shoulders, hanging it carelessly from the antlers of a nearby stuffed stags head along with his red cashmere muffler. She took Patrick’s arm and started leading him down the corridor towards the kitchen, chatting animatedly all the while. John frowned a little at Patrick’s back, and watched them go. 

He could tell that Violet was doing her best to put Patrick at his ease, no doubt wanting to make him feel at home. But there was just something a little off about Singh, the same way it had struck him when they met at Fortnum and Mason. When they had first met him, back in Edinburgh, the rather beautiful young man seemed confident to the point of arrogance. He had never, not even once to John’s recollection, seemed awkward or at a loss. It was one of the things that had annoyed him the most about Patrick; the fact that he was so bloody _suave_. 

(Well, that and the fact that he had had designs on John’s boyf… partn… on his detective.)

He couldn’t imagine that the Patrick they had met a few months ago would have been anxious about showing up anywhere unexpectedly. He would have made some witty, charming little remark to excuse the lapse in manners and it would have all been smooth sailing in seconds. But the flicker of… well, whatever that was, when Violet hugged him? That was new. 

“Do you think he’s alright?” John murmured to Sherlock, who had plucked at his sleeve in an attempt to get him to start moving towards the kitchen. “He seems a bit….”

Sherlock shrugged, seeming unconcerned and perhaps a little grumpy. “Unwelcome?”

“Don’t be a git.” John whispered, absently smacking Sherlock’s arm as they made their way down the corridor.

“I’m not the one who had a face like thunder every time he was in the room, back in Edinburgh.” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Yeah, well.” John grimaced a little. “I’m attempting to get over it. Shut up. But doesn’t he seem a bit off to you? He seemed about ready to cry when Violet hugged him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I think it is safe to assume that Mr. Singh is feeling rather _vulnerable_ -” he said the word with deepest disdain “-because my brother left London for Geneva this morning. One can only conclude that Patrick had been hoping to spend a cosy New Years Eve with Mycroft and has been left rather disappointed.” 

John had to stop himself from giggling a bit at the utterly nauseated look on Sherlock’s face as he forced himself to utter these words. “Oh, dear. Poor lad.”

“Well it’s frankly imbecilic to have set his sights on my brother.” Sherlock said, darkly. “He might as well fall in love with a post-box. And I really don’t see why he has to come and dry his teary eyes on _my_ cousin, either. He must have some of his own, surely?”


	9. Chapter 9

“There is a dining room here, but it’s really only any good if you’re going to be entertaining forty of your closest friends,” Violet explained, leading the way into the warm kitchen. A variety of intriguing scents were wafting from the direction of the huge old range, and she grabbed a pair of stained oven gloves from the end of the kitchen table before opening one of the oven doors. “Furthermore, it’s full of terrifying portraits of former inhabitants of the house, and I’m pretty sure that all of them disapprove of me.”

“My great grandparents bought the place along with most of the furnishings. They’re certainly not any of _my_ family members.” Sherlock said, lifting the lid off a bubbling pot and sniffing the contents with interest. 

“Well luckily your grandmother never had a portrait painted that I’m aware of.” Violet pointed out. “I’m not sure I could hack having _her_ glower at me every time I stayed here. I put up with more than enough of that when she lived at Hilderbogie.” 

She slapped Sherlock’s hand absently, and the lid clattered back onto the pot. He gave her a look of mild outrage, which she countered with a whack from the oven gloves. 

“Go and get Patrick a glass of wine, you inhospitable berk.” she ordered, and began to deftly carve a tray of roasted guinea fowl. “John, will you shove an extra place setting at the table?”

Patrick sat down gingerly at one of the carved chairs at the long kitchen table, where three places were already set at one end. The kitchen was beautifully warm and dimly lit, with several candles dribbling wax onto the scarred wood from a pair of tarnished silver candlesticks. John watched Patrick furtively as he dug around in one of the drawers of a tall welsh dresser, extracting some heavy silverware and an extra linen napkin. Patrick was slightly hunched in his seat, perched on the edge as if feeling deeply out of place. Sherlock plonked a glass of red wine in front of him with perhaps slightly more force than was strictly necessary, and sat down next to him.

“Did you bring your painting gear, Patrick?” John asked, when it seemed that no one else was going to make conversation. Violet was absorbed in plating up the meal, and had her back turned to the room. After pouring glasses of wine from one of several dusty bottles in the nearby wine-rack, Sherlock had dug out his phone and was idly googling something. 

Patrick smiled, learning towards him. “Yes, certainly. I’m hoping that dear Violet’s offer of some extra tuition on landscapes is still open. I’m afraid that I’ve rather neglected my painting of late.”

“Let’s not call it tuition, old thing.” Violet said grimly, without turning around. “I’ve had enough of teaching painting for a good while, after all that business in Edinburgh. Let’s just call it a couple of friends doing a spot of aimless daubing over the holidays.” She threw a brief, kind smile over her shoulder at Patrick. 

“You’re not planning on taking any more students, then?” John asked curiously. “Ever?”

“Hm. Not for a while, anyway. I’ve mainly been doing my own work over the last couple of months – my stint in Marrakesh was particularly rewarding. I found a marvellous chap to model for me there, and I’m really pretty chuffed with the results. And I’ve got a contract lined up at the Glasgow Metropolitan Archives in the new year, to do a spot of fourteenth century palaeography, so that’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Reading messy handwriting.” Sherlock translated for John, who was about to open his mouth to ask. 

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, you twerp.” Violet glared, putting a laden plate in front of him and deftly confiscating his phone while he was distracted by the sight of food. “Would you describe your work as ‘finding things out’?”

“And this marvellous chap in Marrakesh – I’m assuming he’s the reason you ended up staying an extra ten days in Morocco?”

“Perhaps.” Violet grinned, taking her own seat and picking up her fork. “He had some _very_ intriguing positions to pose in.”

John choked slightly on his first mouthful of glazed parsnips, and let an innocently concerned Violet pound him on the back. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and focussed his attention on his plate with an almost indecent greed. Patrick seemed unmoved, although he caught Violet’s eye with a faint twinkle over his wine glass. John suddenly remembered Violet describing sketching Patrick during their brief fling while he was her student, and hastily returned to his plate. 

The guinea fowl was delectable, scented with fragrant juniper berries and thinly coated in a lemon sauce. The parsnips were roasted to almost burnt perfection, darkly glazed with maple syrup and pink peppercorns, served alongside melting boulangére potatoes. They were so creamily perfect John was tempted to promise Violet anything in the world that she desired, as long as he was allowed a second helping. 

“Violet, where the _hell_ did you learn to cook like this?” John asked, when he was able to speak again. “Shouldn’t you be swearing at sous-chefs at the Savoy or something, when you can do this?”

“The swearing I could manage.” Violet grinned, taking a sip of her wine. “Cooking to please anyone but myself, though – absolutely not. Anyone who told me to change a thing, I’d throw a colander at their head. I suppose I picked it up here and there. I studied cooking a bit, in Paris. Long time ago, now though.”

“I should think it entirely obvious that the reason you can cook is because of the way in which your brain processes information.” Sherlock remarked, getting up and fetching the roasting tin of leftover parsnips from the top of the stove. His plate, astonishingly, was entirely empty already. “Your reasonably high levels of naturalistic and spatial intelligence allow you to create links between concepts of flavour and proportional relationships.”

“Well, if you want to be a wanker about it.” Violet said in a bored tone, prising the tin from Sherlock’s reluctant fingers before he could demolish the last of the vegetables. She paused, and glared at him. “And how bloody dare you – _reasonably_ high levels?”

“Well, it’s not as if you trained your mind as I have.” Sherlock said loftily. 

“Hmm.” Violet stared at him with narrowed eyes. “And yet, as I recall, I was the one who taught you how to figure out tan-lines. The way to tell the difference between six types of bank employees. Grades of fabric; types of paper; ceramics; quite a lot of sleight of hand; identifying provincial dialects in at least five languages and let’s not forget about how to play the bassoon. Need I continue?”

“I’m certainly not claiming that you’re unintelligent, Vi.” Sherlock said, in what he obviously thought was a reassuring tone. “Merely that your mind is somewhat undisciplined. It was seven languages, incidentally; which you would remember if you had developed a proper system of recollection like I have. You forgot Turkish and Basque”

John couldn’t quite decide if this conversation was more like a tennis match or the beginnings of a brawl. Sherlock was idly running his fingers through the remains of the sauce on his plate, licking the last of the lemon and juniper reduction from his index and middle fingers. (Patrick was looking mildly appalled at this further lapse in decorum.) Violet was leaning towards him from across the table, her elbows firmly planted along the edge. She was wearing a dangerous kind of smile, incidentally looking more frightening and devastatingly attractive than John had ever seen her. 

“Ah, but you’re forgetting a very important skill, my old fruit.” she remarked casually. “You may well know how to identify who people are, and why they do the things they do. You can figure out what they’re about to do next, based on a hundred tiny clues. You can certainly observe things better than I can; I’ll admit I never put the effort into it that you did. I never felt the need; and frankly I don’t think I want to be able to see into people like that. I think people deserve their secrets, most of the time. You don’t. You let yourself see into the cracks, and all the dreadful little details that people strive to hide.” Violet took a sip of wine, her gaze never leaving Sherlock’s face. “Which one of the two of us gets through life more smoothly, do you think?”

Patrick’s eyes met John’s across the table, looking more than a little concerned at the scene. John raised his brows and shrugged minutely; it was far from a comfortable atmosphere but he knew better than to attempt to intervene. Sherlock’s eyes were hooded in the dim candlelight, the sharp lines of his face thrown into a stark contrast of smooth pale skin and dark shadowed hollows.

“And you make the mistake of thinking that that _matters_ to me.”

Violet shrugged. “It does to me. I’ve got a bloody nice life, by and large. One could argue it’s due to my ability to step away from the temptation of dissecting everyone I meet.”

“Ah. Selective ignorance for the sake of peace of mind.” Sherlock curled his lip. _“Dull.”_

“What is wrong with peace of mind?” Patrick asked, looking intrigued as well as a little anxious about the debate. John winced slightly, but before Sherlock could give a cutting response Patrick held up a placating hand. “I know that for you and… well, for people with your kind of relentless intellect, it is difficult to step away from analysing, deducing, observing – whatever you call it. But it must be exhausting, too, surely?”

Patrick’s words were quiet. He barely met Sherlock’s eyes as he spoke, studying the base of the ornate silver candelabra and running the tip of one of his slender brown fingers through the filigree curves. He swallowed, with the merest hint of difficulty. “Don’t you ever just wish that you could… switch it off?”

“It is not that straightforward.” Sherlock said, after a slight pause. To John’s relief, he seemed to be attempting to restrain himself somewhat. “Once the mind has been trained to notice everything, it is not a case of merely flicking the switch off again.”

“I see.” Patrick sighed slightly, reaching to pour himself more wine. “I thought that might be the case. I greatly admire your kind of mind, Mr. Holmes.” His tone was not flirtatious. If anything, John thought, it was rather sad. “But I can’t envy you for it.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed Patrick’s pensive face, the shadows under his indigo eyes and the faint hollows of his cheeks. Patrick had eaten perhaps half of his food, and although he was as well groomed and put-together as ever there was just something a little… _fragile_ about him. 

Before John could give Sherlock a warning kick under the table, Violet laughed suddenly and threw her napkin at the detective’s face. “You gluttonous twerp! I cannot believe that you just ate _all_ of the parsnips!”

“And the potatoes, too.” John pointed out, looking at the empty dish with disapproval and no little relief. The atmosphere seemed to soften a bit, and dissolve. Patrick smiled almost effortlessly, and pushed his own plate wordlessly towards Sherlock. The latter calmly threw Violet’s napkin back across the table, where it tangled with one of her large emerald earrings.

“Quite nauseating, really.” Violet commented, leaning her chin on her hand and watching Sherlock eat the leftovers with a kind of horrified fascination. “I mean, there must be a bloody limit to how much you can physically eat. But you never seem to reach it.”

Patrick was also watching Sherlock with more interest than should really have been necessary, John thought. Admittedly, it was still a strange thing to watch him eat with such greedy enthusiasm. But that was because John knew that prior to their arrival Sherlock had eaten approximately four meals over the space of a week. Ok, maybe five if he counted the cheese and pickle sandwich he had shoved in Sherlock’s coat pocket when he was on his way out the door on Tuesday morning. (John had accompanied the sandwich with a warning glare, but for all he knew a passing duck or a member of the homeless network had eaten it.)

“What’s for dessert?” Sherlock asked, once he had cleaned the second plate. Patrick leaned back in his chair, perhaps slightly concerned that Sherlock might explode.

“Utterly disgusting, in fact.” Violet remarked conversationally, getting to her feet. “Come on, help me clear the plates and I’ll see if there’s any ice cream in the freezer.”

Sherlock grumbled slightly from force of habit, but pushed back his chair with a screech. John and Patrick attempted to help, but Violet waved them away carelessly. “It’s only a few plates, laddies. Don’t worry.” 

Sherlock carelessly piled the gilt-edged china and heavy silver cutlery together and followed Violet across the cavernous kitchen to the scullery; leaving them in one of the massive Belfast sinks with a crash. Violet glared at him and elbowed him sharply until he grudgingly turned on one of the taps, filling the sink with hot water and far too many suds. 

The kitchen was so large that John was fairly confident that he would not be overheard. He edged his seat a little closer to Patrick and leant forward a bit awkwardly. 

“Patrick, it’s absolutely none of my business…” John paused, and frowned. He was curious as hell, admittedly, but… 

(Alright, yes, curious in a terrifying bizarre way because let’s face it, Mycroft, I mean bloody MYCROFT in _any_ kind of romantic entanglement, argh, argh!). 

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched slightly, and he folded his arms on the edge of the table. The long dark waves of his hair slipped slowly across one powerful shoulder, catching the light. “Yes, John?”

“Oh, hell. It really isn’t any of my business at all.” John looked down at the table before refilling his glass. It didn’t need refilling in the slightest, but he felt the need to cover his embarrassment somehow. He glanced over at Sherlock and Violet through the open stone archway that led to the scullery. He smiled slightly as he watched Violet briefly rest her head on Sherlock’s shoulder as he noisily clattered plates in the sink. 

“I appreciate your concern, John.” Patrick said evenly, following his gaze with a faintly amused expression. “But would you mind if we were terribly British and pretend that all is well, just for now?” 

His tone was as light and charming as ever; but as he met John’s eyes there was the faintest hint of a plea in their depths. 

“Of course!” John flushed slightly. “’Course. Sorry. I’d suggest talking about football, but I bloody hate it.”

Patrick’s smile widened a little. “Cricket?”

“Atrocious game. Goes on forever. And the rules make no sense at all!” Violet said disapprovingly, coming back to the table with the large steel bowl of ice cream she had extracted from the fridge. “Except for the gin, strawberries and cream, and dashing young chaps in cricket sweaters. I entirely approve of those aspects of cricket matches.”

“But not the tremendous skill, dexterity and athleticism of the sport itself?” Patrick queried, accepting a bowlful with thanks. 

Violet snorted with disdain, not bothering to answer this ridiculous query. She slapped Sherlock’s hand away from the bowl without blinking, and spooned out a large helping of balsamic honeycomb ice-cream for John. After serving herself, she rolled her eyes and simply pushed the large serving bowl towards Sherlock.

“John played rugby at university.” Sherlock remarked unexpectedly, in between large spoonfuls. “He was evidently quite good, despite his somewhat diminutive stature.”

“Hey!”

“He’s got some very interesting scars on his lower back and-“

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

“Gosh, lower back and _where_ , exactly?” Violet asked, intrigued. She grinned around her own spoon at John, who was fighting an embarrassed blush while glowering threateningly at Sherlock. Sherlock looked far too innocently surprised at his reaction. 

“Never you mind.” John muttered, darkly. He certainly wasn’t going to let on that Sherlock had some fairly detailed plans and sketches of all of his scars, minor as well as major. 

“I’ll show you the photographs later.” Sherlock assured Violet cheerfully. 

“What fucking photographs?!” John spluttered, dropping his spoon with horror and a faint splatter. 

Violet’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Golly! Bugger charades, that’s the kind of after-dinner entertainment that _I_ look forward to!”

Sherlock maintained his determinedly innocent expression, seeming perplexed at both John’s outrage and Violet’s salacious grin. 

John boggled slightly at Sherlock.

(What. The. Fuck. I will kill him. I will really, honestly kill him if he took photos of my arse to show Violet! I mean… _Jesus!_ I mean, he nearly hit the roof when he heard about her kissing me in a really bloody innocent way. Why the fuck is he suddenly happy to show her pictures of my-) 

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of Patrick beginning to laugh, dropping his own spoon carelessly onto the wooden table. John stared at him, suddenly struck by the fact that he didn’t think when he’d ever heard the man laugh aloud before. Quiet, amused smiles perhaps; but certainly not a deep, helpless chuckle like this. Patrick’s face was flushed, crinkled with amusement in an unfamiliar way. His shoulders shook slightly, and all of a sudden it seemed as if he had put down some kind of heavy burden. Violet winked at John, dissolving into giggles along with Patrick.

(Oh, you _bastard!_ ) 

John kicked Sherlock under the table sharply, and gave him a long hard look. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched minutely as he slid his hand onto John’s knee and squeezed. 

(He made Patrick laugh. All that, to make the poor bloke _laugh._ ) 

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Oh, very well. I’ll just have to save them for another time. Apologies, Violet.”

“Oh, that’s alright!” Violet beamed. “We could look at some of my old sketches of you! I found some the other day, in one of my more ancient portfolios. I reckon I’d make a packet if I sold them to one of the newspapers, you know-“

Sherlock’s expression froze slightly. “Which sketches, in particular?”

“I can see the headlines now…” Violet sighed, and licked her spoon thoughtfully. “Blimey! Barely-Legal Boffin In The Buff!”

“How about the fans?” John pondered aloud. “I mean, some of them on the forums – they’d be gagging to get a look at some nude Sherlock drawings. You could post them on my blog, if you like?”

“Or a charity auction!” Violet cried. “Fabulous!”

“After I get a good look first, though.” John said hastily, ignoring the way Sherlock’s fingers were now digging painfully into his leg. “I mean, are we talking _completely-“_

“Neither of you are remotely amusing.” Sherlock said crossly. He returned to his rapidly melting ice-cream and completely ignored the way Patrick had buried his face in his hands and was continuing to laugh helplessly over his bowl.


	10. Chapter 10

Back in the drawing room a couple of hours later, Sherlock eventually agreed to play for Violet. He grudgingly left to fetch his worn violin case from upstairs while Patrick settled himself on one end of the blue silk brocade sofa. 

Violet smiled at him and curled up at the opposite end, carelessly kicking off her emerald suede pumps which landed with a clatter on the floor. Patrick seemed decidedly less tense now, and he looked comfortable and a little tired as he leant back against the embroidered cushions. John threw a couple of extra logs on the fire, and sat down in one of the wing backed arm chairs. The room was shadowy and intimate, dimly lit by only the flames and a few small lamps in the darkest corners. 

“I believe that you and Mr Holmes are helping to solve another mystery here, John?” Patrick inquired, stretching his long legs out in front of him. 

John nodded. “Yeah. It’s a bit of an odd one, really. It seems to me that the poisonings might just be a stupid way to discredit Mr. Antonelli or his business; but he swears that he can’t think of anyone who would want to harm him.”

Violet hummed thoughtfully. “Nor can I, come to think of it. I mean, fair enough, I don’t spend a huge amount of time up here. But I’ve never had the faintest inkling of him making an enemy of anyone. Everyone likes Mr. Antonelli; pretty much everyone shops at his place.”

“Miss Argyle didn’t like him much.”

“Miss Argyle doesn’t like anyone much.” Violet snorted derisively. “With her it’s merely varying degrees of disapproval.”

“PC Dalziell must do.” John shrugged. “Before she started shrieking at us she said they’d just gotten engaged the afternoon before they drank the tonic water.”

Violet blinked. “Blimey. The poor bugger must have finally caved in.”

“Surely, she can’t be _that_ objectionable?” Patrick asked curiously. 

“Pfft! Combine Medusa, Bloody Mary and Mary Poppins on a really bad day and you’ll get a fair approximation of Miss Argyle’s character.” Violet smirked. “That said, the PC is kind of an odd fish. He’s kept himself to himself most of the time since he moved here. Miss Argyle set her sights on him the minute he arrived; baking him rotten little fairy cakes and dragging him along to the bowling club after church. Fairy cakes with hundred and thousands _and_ glacé fucking cherries on them, mark you!”

John grinned. “Dalziell’s not local then?”

Violet shook her head. “No. Someplace down in England. The accent suggests Lancashire with a spell in London at some point, but he’s pretty cagey about where he’s from. I’ve always been of the opinion that he came here to get away from something.”

Sherlock re-entered the room, looking put upon. “Good grief, Vi. This mausoleum gets colder by the minute. There’s ice on the _inside_ of the windows on the second floor corridor.”

"It builds character.” Violet said dismissively. “That’s what your grandmother always used to tell me anyhow; whenever I had the nerve to suggest installing central heating.”

“Yes, but my grandmother also used to tell me that human procreation involved some kind of ludicrous ornithological delivery service. The woman was clearly unhinged.” Sherlock muttered, taking his violin from the velvet-lined case.

“My grandmother used to tell me that a large creature with sixteen noses and enormous fangs would come and bite my legs off if I didn’t eat my vegetables.” Patrick said reminiscently, and smiled at John’s expression. “An interesting woman, if not entirely suited to childcare.”

"And look at you now; you clearly didn’t get scurvy. So it obviously worked.” Violet said, patting his arm and giving him a roguish, admiring glance. She turned to Sherlock and threw a cushion at his head. “Come _on_ , you cantankerous berk! Play us something.”

Sherlock sighed theatrically and turned away to face the fireplace. He paused before raising his bow, exhaling quietly as John stared at his angular profile. He seemed a little hesitant in the second or two before the notes began to fill the still drawing room. John didn’t recognise the tune; he was fairly sure that he had never heard this one before. It started achingly slow, low and so resonant that it seemed to seep into John’s chest rather than enter his ears.

Standing in front of the fireplace in the drawing room he swayed slightly in the flickering light. John slouched back in his armchair and half closed his eyes, dreamily letting the notes roll over him. Sherlock was obviously showing off for Violet, and she plainly knew it. She sat and listened, rapt, curled up next to Patrick on the blue silk sofa. Her eyes were narrowed, gleaming as she leant forward towards Sherlock; a sly little grin on her small full lips.

Patrick was equally absorbed. Admittedly, he had never heard Sherlock play before; but the fascinated way in which he watched the man seemed almost a little excessive to John.

(Yes, alright, he looks fucking glorious like this. The way his face looks when he's utterly lost in the music. I'll never get tired of watching him when he's the opposite of bored. It's like the way he looks when Lestrade calls him in for a 10. The same expression he gets towards the end, when my jaw begins to ache and I feel him beginning to shake under me. When the world seems to turn into nothing but here and now and _oh god yes_.)

The notes began to rush together, rising in pitch and urgency. John didn’t know the piece, and part of him was more absorbed with watching the remote, absorbed face and the elegantly swaying lines of the man’s body as he played than the melody.

Patrick was leaning forward on the sofa, his hands knotted as if in prayer in front of his mouth. His eyes were half-shut and he looked almost pained as he listened to the complex, tumbling notes. Next to him, Violet hadn’t moved an inch since the first note.

John wasn’t sure how long the piece lasted, but it ended with a ringing silence. Sherlock lowered his bow slowly, his chest gently heaving from the exertion, and gave a slight, mocking bow. He abruptly lowered himself to the hearthrug and leaned against John’s chair in a decidedly casual manner.

“Locatelli. You enormous fucking _show off!”_ Violet drawled, in a not quite steady voice. John thought he saw her stealthily pass the tips of her left fingers under her eye before she reached out casually for her silver cigarette case from the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, unrepentant.

“Marvellous.” Patrick murmured, staring at Sherlock with such intensity that John was almost ready to begin questioning his motives all over again.

(Stop it. Stop it now.)

Sherlock ignored Patrick and craned his neck to face John. “A small cognac, I think, John.”

“Bloody good idea.” Violet agreed, before John could complain about being made wait on Sherlock yet again. “Let’s break out the last of the Frapin, shall we?”

“Not for me, thank you.” Patrick said quietly, and got to his feet. Once he had torn his eyes away from Sherlock, he didn’t seem entirely capable of making eye-contact with anyone.

“Would you mind excusing me, Violet? It was a long journey and I’m afraid I’m rather tired.”

“Of course not, old thing.” Violet said, getting to her feet. “Come along; I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. It’s on the second floor; quite a nice room really as long as you don’t look too closely at the bloodcurdling hunting prints or the rather grisly portrait of the Duke of Buccleuch in the lav. Back in a mo, fiends.”

She took Patrick’s hand and led him out of the drawing room rather swiftly. Patrick nodded at them both politely before following Violet through the tall double doors.

John frowned slightly, watching the heavy oak door close and the wrought iron handle swing back into place. Sherlock leant back against his legs and elbowed John into a more comfortable position for lounging against. For the remainder of dinner, Patrick had appeared decidedly more cheerful but somehow the music seemed to have pushed him back down into the sombre mood he had arrived in.

“You know, I don’t actually have any photographs of your arse, John.” Sherlock said thoughtfully, after a moment or two during which he stared meditatively into the depths of the fire.

“Bloody glad to hear it.” John murmured, reaching down and tweaking Sherlock’s ear. 

“And even if I did; I wouldn’t _show_ them to anyone.” Sherlock continued, batting his hand away. “I was merely attempting to lighten the mood earlier.”

“I know, you daft git. It was sort of, um, nice of you. Patrick obviously needs a spot of cheering up.”

Sherlock snorted quietly. “I could tell you were worrying about him. You get a very particular set of creases in your left temple when you’re concerned about someone.”

"Oh. Well, I suppose they’re another few to add to the collection.” John said, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder. “Weird really, to see him laugh like that. He seems so different to how he was in Edinburgh. Sort of… less guarded. A bit tired. He doesn’t look like he’s been eating much.”

“Well he certainly can’t have been spending much time in my brother’s company of late, then.” Sherlock said scathingly. “The sheer quantity of lard and cake in his fridge is frankly terrifying.”

“I really don’t think you’re in any position to judge anyone about the contents of their fridge.” John pointed out. “What’s Mycroft doing in Geneva, anyway?”

“Oh, some tedious negotiations over some kind of arms deal. I forget.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Mummy mentioned it on the phone and I stopped listening. But Patrick clearly hasn’t seen him for several days. Which frankly should have left him in a _much_ better mood than he is currently in.”

***

That night brought even more snow, and when John opened the curtains of Sherlock’s old room the next morning, the landscape outside was thickly blanketed in white. The sky was deep grey over the misty hills across the river, filled with the heavy promise of more to come. 

After a late breakfast with Patrick and Violet in the kitchen, Sherlock and John set out for the village with the intention of calling on the Reverend Duncan. Hilderbogie was only around a mile away from the large house, but it was hidden in the next small glen, clustered around a bend of the deep rushing river. The snow scrunched pleasantly underfoot, and John felt a reawakened childish delight in being the first to mar the expanse of snow that covered the path towards the village. It meandered past the front lawns and skirted the stables and crumbling estate chapel before cutting through the woods near the riverbank. It was bitingly cold, but the misty air was still and tranquil; only the sound of their feet on the virgin snow and the sound from the river broke the silence. Flocks of crows and an occasional bird of prey swirled dizzily overhead. 

“There goes Grizelda Antonelli, I believe.” Sherlock said, pointing at a lone rider on horseback across the glen. The small figure waved a hand at them in quiet salute, before heading slowly into the trees. Griz was sensibly bundled up against the cold, her short hair covered by a man’s flat cap. She had a large backpack across her shoulders. The horse she was riding was a large mottled piebald, and it moved haltingly through a patch of deep snow. 

“Hardly a day for exercising horses, surely?” John queried, watching their slow journey with faint concern. 

Sherlock shrugged, and started walking again. “I suspect that she has business, rather than exercise on her mind. My grandparents always complained about the amount of poaching that went on around here; I rather think she’ll be off to check her traps in the woods.”

“Well, everyone needs a hobby, I suppose.” John mused, wrapping his scarf a little more warmly around his neck. He was glad that Violet had insisted on providing him with heavier layers of clothing the day before; although Sherlock had smirked at the stout boots and knitted hat he was wearing, at least he didn’t feel as if he was about to succumb to frostbite anymore. Sherlock in his irritating way didn’t seem to feel the cold, and wore his usual long coat and scarf with the air of a man taking a pleasant stroll around Regent’s Park in September. 

Spires of smoke from tall stone chimneys moved vertically through the still air, visible before they could see the houses of the village. Rounding the final bend in the path and emerging from the stark leafless woods they found themselves on the edge of the village green. The wide expanse was dotted with snowmen and the unmistakeable signs of their recent construction; long stripes of frozen grass were visible here and there where children had undoubtedly been rolling snow. On closer inspection some of the snowmen were rather gruesome, their spindly twig arms appearing to push the head off one of their fellows. Another two seemed to be fighting each other, one brandishing an old fashioned broom and another gouging out a coal eyeball with its sapling fingers. 

Beyond the green was a picturesque clutter of granite cottages and low buildings, none of them more than two stories tall. Several of the doors were framed by pillars formed from roughly hewn tree trunks, gnarled and smoothed by time. Tall sloping rooves and windowsills were heavily adorned with sharp icicles and thick layers of snow. Light shone from behind thick glass windows, as the sun was now only just clearing the hills. The narrow winding streets were sparsely populated, with only a handful of people cautiously making their way along the slushy pavements. 

“I suppose the Reverend will live near the church, then?” John queried, beginning to make his way across the green and disturbing a flock of harshly cawing crows. 

“You certainly are in sparkling form today, John.” said Sherlock seriously.

Before John could open his mouth to retort, Sherlock lurched suddenly and staggered; gasping. He grasped the windowsill of the cottage they were passing, large dollops of melting snow slipping down his back. A large and well-aimed snowball had struck him squarely in the back of the head. 

John grabbed his arm before he could slip, unable to swallow his laugh entirely. He scanned the suspiciously empty green, noting the criss-crossed pattern of footprints that almost certainly hadn’t been there a minute before. Sherlock spun around once he had regained his footing, glowering in fury. The hair on the back of his head was saturated and dripping with melting snow, and his face had turned pink with outrage. 

“WHO THREW THAT?!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating against the stone walls. “SHOW YOURSELF!” 

There was a complete lack of response, although John thought that he heard a hastily muffled giggle coming from behind a nearby dry stone wall. “Er…Sherlock, I really don’t think that’s a good-“

The barrage began. Two slight figures suddenly popped up like jack-in-the-boxes from behind the wall; the first snowball hurled in their direction missed John by a hair; but the second hit him squarely in the chest. The next one glanced off Sherlock’s elbow and exploded messily against the cottage wall. Rab and Pruny Antonelli were obviously well practised at this kind of ambush; they clearly had a hoard of pre-manufactured snowballs hidden behind the wall.

John squared his shoulders, then had to duck suddenly as Rab flung another handful of snow with deadly aim. “Right. Well, I think the only sensible thing to do at this point-“

Sherlock nodded stonily, his eyes narrowed. Within seconds he had scooped a handful of snow from the top of a garden wall and rolled it tightly between his gloved hands. John grinned and copied him, bending to fashion a large and somewhat misshapen snowball from the path. 

“Come on then, laddies, if you think you’re hard enough!” Rab shrieked, brandishing her next missile menacingly. Pruny grinned, showing her small sharp teeth. 

“Well, Miss Antonelli - if you _insist_ …” Sherlock called back coolly, and took careful aim. 

Rab narrowed her eyes and snorted scornfully at him, and was clearly not expecting the deadly accuracy with which he propelled the snowball. It knocked off her furry trapper hat with an audible smack, leaving her gasping and wiping at the icy snow that trickled down her pink face. 

“This means WAR, ya big southern Jessies!” Pruny shouted furiously, and took careful aim. John tried his best, but he was laughing too hard to retaliate properly; she hit him in the stomach while his own snowball landed at least six feet away from her. Some small part of him thought that it was possibly _a bit not good_ to be waging war on a pair of twelve year old girls; but the fact that they appeared to be winning outweighed this. 

Sherlock was clearly taking the battle seriously, ducking every couple of seconds to scoop more snow and dodging sharply to miss the almost constant battery of snowballs that the twins launched at them. John gave up trying to hit the twins and began to hand snowballs to Sherlock, but the girls had clearly an almost limitless supply of perfectly fashioned ones hidden behind the wall. Sherlock managed to hit them both several times, which led to shrill curses and yells of outrage; but they still continued to hit both Sherlock and John with tremendous skill and accuracy. 

Within a few minutes, John was hot, out of breath and liberally dusted with powdery snow and droplets of water. Sherlock was ducking and diving, breathing heavily and pink cheeked. He was grinning devilishly as he moved, his coat tails flying behind him as he darted to avoid yet another direct hit. He laughed aloud as Rab missed him once more, spun and launched a double throw which led to both twins scrambling to take cover behind the wall. 

“They’ll just be making more snowballs behind there, you know!” John laughed, gasping for breath. He handed Sherlock another handful of snow, taking in his flushed face and dishevelled dark curls. “Maybe we should make a run for it?”

“Admit defeat? Surely these cannot be the words of fearless Captain John Hamish Watson, he of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?!” Sherlock grinned mockingly, his eyes trained on the wall for signs of the two girls.

Unexpectedly, there was a blur of movement from beyond the wall, from somewhere in the direction of the tall oaks that bordered the wide expanse of the green. Almost instantly there were two screeches of protest, one after the other. The twins launched themselves to their feet, looking utterly furious.

“Hey!” Pruny bellowed. “Who threw that?!”

“That’s fucking _cheating!”_ Rab seethed, spinning around to face the trees. 

There was a brief shower of snow from one of the larger oaks, followed by a lanky figure dropping from a wide branch overhead and landing catlike below. Murdy Antonelli grinned at her younger sisters, tucking her ungloved hands deep into the pockets of her slightly shabby long green coat. 

“Just evening up the odds a bit, my wee darlings!” she called mockingly, trudging through the snow towards them, her thin legs encased in large black boots that seemed a bit big for her. “I could see that you were putting together a few Flossie specials behind the walls; and that’s bloody disgusting even for you two!”

“What’s a Flossie special?” John asked, deciding that it was probably safe to drop his last snowball now that there seemed to be at least a temporary ceasefire in place. 

Murdy cast a scathing look at her mutinous younger sisters, and sighed. “Flossie is Mrs. Dalhousie’s rotten little Pomeranian, and a Flossie special is a snowball which is fashioned with a surprise in the middle. I think what with being detectives, the pair of you can figure out the rest.”

John stared at the twins, open-mouthed. “Well I have to say that’s a bit… um. Unsporting.”

“Well, it’s like in that book that Murdy was reading the other day.” Rab muttered darkly, kicking the wall sulkily. “The one by Mr. Shoe.”

“Mr. Shoe?” John queried, nonplussed.

“Yeah, Mr. Shoe. He says that you should first settle your enemy into a predictable pattern of response, you see.” 

“That’s the ordinary snowballs.” Pruny supplied helpfully, and frowned slightly as she appeared to recite something from memory. “It _‘occupies their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment, which which they cannot anticipate’._ ”

“That’s the Flossie specials.” Rab finished, and glared at Murdy. “Or at least they would have been unanticipated, if only some big spoilsport hadn’t ruined _everything!_ ”

“This Mr. Shoe said that?” John asked curiously. Sherlock snorted quietly, brushing off the worst of the snow from his coat.

“Yeah, old Chinese fellow. Dead now.” Rab said dismissively, seeming annoyed and a bit perplexed at the small grin on Murdy’s face. 

"What are you doing in Hilderbogie, anyhow?” Pruny asked curiously. “Are you coming to look for clues in our shop?”

“Certainly, in time.” Sherlock replied. “We’re on our way to call on the Reverend Duncan first though.”

“Huh.” Rab sniffed, unimpressed. “Well I bet he won’t be able to tell you _anything._ We’ve got _loads_ of theories about who the poisoner is, though.”

“I’ll come with you.” Murdy said, unexpectedly. “He said he’d lend me a couple of books the other day, I might as well pick them up.”

“Oh, er- good.” John said, a little taken aback. “You can show us the way then.”

Murdy shrugged awkwardly, and began to make her way towards the footpath that led into the village. Sherlock bowed mockingly at the twins and turned to follow her. John edged slowly away from Rab and Pruny mistrustfully, not convinced that they would adhere to the truce once their backs were turned. Rab folded her arms, watching him with narrowed eyes. 

They held each others gaze until John ducked slowly around the corner, for all the world feeling like a man who had narrowly avoided a bad end in an old western.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the delay! This has absolutely nothing to do with writers block and everything to do with a lack of time. I have the whole story mapped out, but having two jobs and doing an MA is getting in the way of my writing time, dammit!
> 
> Thank you so, SO much for all your lovely kudos, comments and Tumblr encouragement. I feel like such a heel for not getting around to replying to each and every one of you, when I read and reread and treasure every comment left - they really make my day :)


	11. Chapter 11

Hilderbogie only seemed to be waking up as they made their way down the narrow winding streets. Few cars inched their way along the slushy streets, and there were only a handful of people out and about. They passed a deserted drapers shop, and a shuttered pub before cutting down a side street after the small Victorian schoolhouse. It didn’t escape John’s notice that a few sidelong glances were cast towards Murdy, and more than one pair of curtains twitched as they walked past the grey stone houses. 

Murdy dug her hands deep into her pockets and glared ahead, meeting none of the curious eyes.

“That’s Miss Argyle’s place.” she said gruffly, nodding towards a small neat cottage next to the school. 

They paused next to the fancy wrought iron gate, and took in the pink chintz curtains at the windows and the small ceramic squirrels on the doorstep. Although the tiny front garden was thickly blanketed in snow like all the others, it gave off the impression of excruciating tidiness. A dainty wooden bird table stood at the precise centre of the lawn, surrounded by garden gnomes that were so carefully arranged they looked almost like a battalion. Rather incongruously, there was a thick band of barbed wire wrapped around the base of the bird table, wound so thickly it looked almost like a wreath. 

“She doesn’t like real squirrels, you see.” Murdy remarked wryly. “They come and eat the birdseed. So she got Dalziell to squirrel-proof the table. It was much more entertaining when she used to hang out the windows and shriek at them, though. You could hear her from right across the village.”

“Charming woman.” John murmured. “Does she teach you?”

Murdy shook her head. “Not anymore; she just teaches primary school. There’s a bus that goes to Aberlochry, us older ones go to the high school there. Me and Griz and Pheemy. Miss Argyle kicked Rab and Pruny out of Sunday school; but they’ve still got the rest of the year at the school here.” Murdy gave a slightly lopsided smile. “They’ve tried their best to get kicked out of that too, but the Reverend Duncan keeps intervening on their behalf. They don’t thank him for it, not one bit.”

They resumed their winding path towards the church, the spire rising above the steep slate and snow covered rooves. Murdy walked with her shoulders pulled up towards her ears, kicking drifts of snow with her big black boots. She looked awkward and gawky when she stood still, John noticed; but when she moved it was careful and tense. She ducked her head and peered out from under her heavy mane of shaggy black hair, seeming unwilling to make eye contact with either of them for longer than a second or two. 

“So you solve lots of mysteries, right?” she asked suddenly, aiming the question at Sherlock. 

He nodded silently, glancing over at her thin sharp features with interest. 

“I looked you up on the internet last night. It seems like you two have sorted out much more complicated stuff than just poisonings.” She swallowed hard, and glared at the ground. “I mean, you’re… you’re _good_ at this sort of thing. Right?”

John slowed as they approached the high gate and stone walls of the church yard. Sherlock stopped altogether, and looked down at Murdy curiously, almost as if regarding a new and intriguing creature or puzzle. She looked rather miserable and more than a little angry. She kept on swallowing hard, incapable of saying anything more or meeting Sherlock’s eye. 

“Yes, we are.” John said softly. “And neither of us think that your dad had anything to do with it. Really.”

“Of course he didn’t!” she snapped fiercely. “He’d _never-_ ”

“So we’ll make sure he’s in the clear.” John said quietly. He felt a strange urge to reach out, to touch her shoulder or pat her arm. Anything that might give some kind of reassurance or comfort. 

He knew that at best it would be awkward and unwelcome. At worst he was slightly concerned she might bite. There was something just a bit odd and wild about her, so many jagged edges and aches in the way she held herself. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine what it must be like to be a fourteen year old girl, let alone one whose only parent was suspected of attempted murder.

She nodded sharply, her hair falling into her face and obscuring her dark eyes. She sniffed once, almost inaudibly before turning her back to them. She faced the Victorian presbytery that neighboured the church yard, wrapping her coat around herself tightly. 

“That coat belonged to your mother.” Sherlock said suddenly. It wasn’t a question, and John briefly wondered where on earth the detective was going with this. Mentioning an upset girl’s dead mother didn’t seem like the most appropriate way to cheer her up and he gave Sherlock a quelling look.

Sherlock studiously ignored him, and continued to gaze at Murdy’s stiff shoulders and bowed head. “Of course, one could claim that it’s _vintage_ ; but that coat was bought for someone taller than you, with slightly longer arms. Irish tweed, well cut, good quality; vegetable dyes most likely derived from dulse seaweed. Your parents went on honeymoon to the west coast of Ireland, where your father bought it as a gift for her.”

Murdy turned slightly at this, tucking a heavy hank of hair behind one of her small pale ears. She stared at him blankly, but said nothing. Sherlock remained impassive, and took a small step closer before stooping to peer at the collar. “Not the original. Your mother added the black rabbit fur collar two… no, three years later. She didn’t like wearing scarves; probably because they catch the wind too much.”

“She wore this coat every winter, even when she was too pregnant to do it up. You once ripped off one of the buttons from the pocket, didn’t you?”

Murdy didn’t respond. Sherlock seemed to take this as affirmation. 

“That button was pulled off, along with some of the fibres, approximately ten years ago. It’s the perfect height for a child of four to grab at. Large round buttons; very attractive to small children. Your sisters all wear modern, ordinary clothes that one can buy on any high street; even your sister Euphemia despite her appalling dress sense wears new clothes. But you wear your mother’s coat; your mother’s boots. Interesting.”

“Sherlock.” John murmured. “Sherlock, that’s enough-“

Murdy continued to stare steadily at Sherlock. She didn’t seem to mind the deduction; if anything she seemed calmer than she had done before he started talking. She ran her fingertips over the black button on the pocket, stroking it with her thumb.

“I’d… forgotten. She told me off, and didn’t allow me any pudding. I was so cross, because it was an accident.” she said, a little wonderingly. She frowned slightly, obviously thinking hard. “The dye. You figured out that they’d been on honeymoon in Galway because of the dye.”

“It is one of the most common areas for dulse harvesting.” Sherlock agreed. Nobody else would have spotted it; but John thought that he was just a tiny bit taken aback. “And tweed production using that particular type of wool, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Murdy said, nodding. “Could you tell the age of the coat because of the pattern of wear?”

Sherlock nodded. “And her dislike of scarves. Everyone needs a scarf around here in winter; it’s far too cold to go without. The action of winding a scarf around one’s neck leaves a distinct pile in the guard fibres, which that coat does not have. It’s got all the usual signs under the arms and on the elbows, but not around the neck.”

“She did. She hated scarves. Never wore them. She said that they were always trying to fly away or throttle her.” Murdy half-laughed, and shook her head. “That’s… good. I mean, that’s-“ she trailed off and shrugged. “Ok. Ok, that’s good.”

“So glad you approve.” Sherlock said sardonically, then quietly added: “You’ll be a couple of inches taller within six months. It will fit properly then.” 

“Um. Yes, alright. Let’s go and see the Reverend, then.” Murdy turned towards the house and began to walk again. The difference in her posture was noticeable; her shoulders dropped by several inches and the way she moved through the snow was much more relaxed. 

John nudged Sherlock as they followed her, leaning in very briefly to press his shoulder against Sherlock’s upper arm as they moved. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched slightly as he caught John’s eye. 

_Good?_

_Good._

***

John wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting of the Reverend Duncan. He hadn’t met many members of the clergy, having been brought up Church of England in the very loosest possible sense. In fact the last time he had met a vicar was probably… (oh, god.)

The reverend was nothing like that rather weedy, washed-out vicar, much to John’s great relief. When he opened the door, he turned out to be a tall well built man in his mid fifties, with an impressive mane of iron grey hair and a well-groomed beard. He raised his bushy eyebrows at the sight of Sherlock and John, and then seemed to relax slightly at the sight of Murdy standing a little way behind them. 

“Ah. I suppose you’ll be young Mr. Holmes, then?” he asked, opening the door wider. Sherlock grimaced slightly, but didn’t contradict him. 

“Yes, and this is Doctor Watson. We visited your wife yesterday, I assume she mentioned it?”

“Hello there.” John said quickly, deciding that at least one out of the three of them should at least pretend to have some manners. “Sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“They’re helping find out who poisoned the tonic, Reverend.” Murdy interjected, stepping closer to the door. “I assumed that you wouldn’t be leaving for the service for another hour or so.”

“Quite right, Murdina. Come along in, why don’t you? I was just about to make some coffee. We’ve got time for a chat.”

He led the way down the hallway of the cosy, old fashioned house towards a large kitchen at the back. The walls were papered with fussy William Morris floral patterns, and almost anything that could have sported a frill did so. Despite the obvious care taken with decorating the interior, it was rather messy; John saw several old newspapers and discarded pairs of shoes lying on the living room floor as they passed the open door. Similarly the kitchen was distinctly disordered when they entered; crumbs lay on the surfaces and several large stains were scattered across the creased table cloth. The warmth of the room was a relief after the chilly morning air outside, and he followed Murdy’s example, hovering next to the large greasy Aga which was fairly belching out heat.

“I was just looking for the coffee tin, but I’m not sure where Alice hides it-“ the Reverend grimaced slightly and peered helplessly into a disordered cupboard full of knocked-over tins. 

“Please don’t put yourself to any trouble on our account.” John murmured, wincing slightly as a couple of cans rolled out and thundered onto the tiled floor. 

Murdy watched the Reverend with a certain amount of birdlike curiosity, before taking a long glance around the kitchen. She stepped forward suddenly, and opened a small corner cupboard near the kettle; after a second or two she extracted a square green tin from the left hand side, which she handed to the nonplussed vicar.

“Oh, thank you dear. You _are_ clever. Any idea where the pot might be?” he smiled down at her genially. Murdy pursed her lips slightly, scanning the room. Sherlock pointed wordlessly to the tall Welsh dresser next to the window, and she swiftly located a cafetiére from behind a sheaf of unopened letters. For a moment it looked as if Murdy was going to hand it to the minister, before she gently prised the coffee tin from his fingers. He looked relieved, and took a seat at the table while she busied herself making the coffee.

John watched her out of the corner of his eye as he went to fetch some mugs from the draining board. Murdy Antonelli did not strike him as a domestic soul, but he decided that it was probably wisest to take over from the Reverend – he seemed more than a little helpless in the kitchen. It wasn’t the same as Sherlock’s wilful incomprehension of domestic matters; the man seemed genuinely at a loss in his own kitchen. 

“You visit the Duncans often, then?” he asked Murdy quietly, giving the rather grimy looking milk jug a quick rinse under the tap. 

She raised a bony shoulder and shook her head briefly. “Not the kitchen. I come and borrow books now and again. I’m just good at finding stuff, is all. Mrs. Duncan’s going to be in a right state when she comes home to see this place; usually it’s so clean you could eat your tea off the floor.”

Sherlock and the Reverend were deep in conversation at the kitchen table, and barely looked up as John and Murdy joined them. “-she looked dreadful, really awfully pale. She kept trying to get up off the floor, though I did my best to get her to stay put. I went to call the doctor straight away; it was obvious that there was something very wrong with her this time-“

“This time?” Sherlock pounced. “You mean to say that this has happened before?”

The Reverend seemed to founder slightly, and shut his mouth with a snap. A faint blush raised in his cheeks. “Um. No, of course not! She’s never been poisoned before, obviously.”

Sherlock looked steadily at him, taking a sip from the steaming mug that Murdy pushed wordlessly towards him. She was curled up on her own hard-backed chair and was watching the minister with great interest. He looked deeply uncomfortable, a couple of beads of sweat dotting his gleaming grey hairline. He looked around the three of them, his eyes coming to rest finally on Murdy, who stared back at him curiously. 

“Murdina, dear – how about you running along to my study and helping yourself to some books? If you brought back the Sun Tzu, you can just drop it on my desk.”

She raised one of her dark sweeping brows at this, but grudgingly slid off her chair after a moment. “Alright, then.” 

She slouched off into the hall, clearly disgruntled at the obvious dismissal. Reverend Duncan watched her go anxiously, waiting several seconds until the sound of a distant door closing was heard.

John and Sherlock looked at him expectantly. He fished around in his pocket and retrieved a rather crumpled handkerchief, with which he mopped his brow fretfully. 

“Oh, gentlemen… I know that I should tell you all. But it’s a sensitive subject, and probably not one for wee girls to overhear.” He swallowed hard, and looked at them imploringly. “Listen. This can’t get round the village, understand?”

“Of course not.” John murmured, intrigued. 

“My wife…” the Reverend trailed off again, and frowned silently for several long seconds. John kicked Sherlock discreetly under the table, reading the unmistakeable signs of impatience in his face. Sherlock glared at him, but somehow managed to say nothing. “My wife – she’s got a problem or two, I’m afraid. She’s never been poisoned before, but she’s certainly ended up on the floor several times. It breaks my heart but I’m afraid that she has a bit of a weakness for drink. She has done for years. At first, you see, when she fell over I didn’t think it was anything more than just the gin. Lord help me, I was a bit impatient with her – it was Christmas eve and she was meant to be sorting out the flowers for the church before the service that evening.” 

“How much time passed before you realised that it was something more serious than mere intoxication?” Sherlock asked. 

“Oh, it must have been only a minute or two. I tried ringing Doctor MacFadden, but he wasn’t answering. I left him a message, asking him to come at once. Luckily he got it and came round as fast as he could.”

“Why not an ambulance?” John queried, with a faint frown. “Surely it was obvious that it was urgent?”

The Reverend shook his head. “Of course it was urgent. But we’re a remote place, Doctor Watson. Ambulances usually have to come all the way from Aberdeen; it’s often a safer bet to ring the local GP. MacFadden called one when he got here, and as it turned out there was another on the way for Miss Argyle and PC Dalziell. I think that all of the poisonings must have happened within an hour of each other; Mr. Antonelli ended up going to the hospital in the same ambulance as poor Alice.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked at the minister thoughtfully over his fingertips. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, and John was about to ask about what treatment Doctor MacFadden had given Mrs. Duncan when the detective suddenly asked:

“Why does your wife drink, Reverend?”

The minister shook his head sadly. “I don’t know if I can say that it’s any one thing, truly. It’s a long dark winter up here, and there’s not a lot to do in the evenings. She’s always been troubled by the fact that we never managed to have children, although I think she eventually came to accept that it was God’s will. It’s been going on for years. I know that this is an odd thing for a man in my position to say; but she’s become almost too devout for her own good and I think that the drinking has something to do with it. Last year she spent a week convinced that Jesus Christ himself was sending her messages in her dreams.” he grimaced helplessly.

“You don’t believe her?” Sherlock asked tonelessly.

“Of course I don’t!” the Reverend snapped, then sighed. “She gets these ideas sometimes. It’s never anything dangerous; that time she merely believed that the Lord was telling her to put all of her efforts into the parish fundraising committee, and to give away all the pumpkins she’d grown. I may be a man of the cloth, and I really do my best for the parish; but even I have my limits Mr. Holmes. I have faith in rational thinking as well as the Free Church. And I do not believe that the Almighty would trouble himself over sending messages to my wife about a load of pumpkins!”

“Mrs. Duncan seems to be good friends with Miss Argyle.” John interjected, feeling the need to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable waters of theology.

“Hmm. Yes, they are.” Reverend Duncan nodded, a little gloomily. “Not the most charitable of women, sadly. Tremendously capable, though – apart from her work with the children, she’s a real pillar of the community. She helps Alice with the parish committee and organising the local events. I rather think that Alice was attempting to bring her round to a slightly more tolerant way of thinking; but if you ask me she’s got her work cut out for her there. The way that Miss Argyle frog-marches poor PC Dalziell into church every Sunday makes me feel almost sorry for the man. Don’t misunderstand me,” he added, catching sight of John’s slightly bemused expression. “I’m always glad to see a new face in the Kirk. It’s nicer to think that they get there of their own free will though.” 

He reached out for his cup of cooling coffee and took a long swallow. “I’m not sure who would have wanted to poison the tonic. I’m afraid I can’t share Alice’s view that it was an accident; it just doesn’t make sense. I’ve been praying for days, trying to get some answers. But they’re sadly slow in coming.”

“From what I hear, and from the looks Miss Antonelli was receiving on our way over here, many people seem to suspect Hector Antonelli.” Sherlock mused, thoughtfully.

“And I’m not one of them.” The Reverend said plainly. “I can’t say I know Hector too well, but he seems a nice sort of man. Not a regular churchgoer, but I don’t hold that against him. Speaking of which, I’m afraid I’d better be heading next door. I’m supposed to start the service in a few minutes. With poor Alice still in hospital, I’ve got to set out the prayer books and make sure everything is in order beforehand.”

“Please, don’t let us keep you.” John said hastily, getting to his feet and grabbing his damp gloves from the empty chair next to him. “When do you think that Mrs Duncan will be discharged?”

“They seem to think it’ll be another few days, although I hear the others will probably be sent home later today. It’s…” the minister paused and sighed, his face clouding. “I’m afraid that it’s the alcohol, you see. I think the others just had the one drink; but poor Alice must have had a few before the poisoned bottle of tonic was opened. Apparently large amounts of alcohol can intensify the effects of the atropine; or at least that’s what I understand. She’s only a slight creature, as well – it hit her very hard.” 

He looked defeated and more than a little ashamed, and John felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the man. He reached out and patted his arm before he knew what he was doing, and then felt slightly embarrassed at the faintly startled look the minister gave him. 

“I’m sorry. It must be a horrible time for you.” he said quietly, and turned awkwardly for the door.

“Oh, er. Thank you.” Reverend Duncan said hoarsely. “You’re very kind.”

Murdina was waiting for them in the hall, several large volumes tucked under her arm and another two smaller books weighing down the pockets on either side of her green coat. 

She nodded her thanks at the minister. “I’ll bring the Tzu back tomorrow, Reverend. I think Rab is still taking a few notes from it.”

“Oh, dear.” Reverend Duncan said faintly. “Perhaps you might want to hold off on sharing the Xenophon with them for a while?” he tapped on the spine of one of the larger tomes. “I’m not sure that the village could withstand the lessons they would take from the Persian expeditions.”

Murdy grinned a crooked little smile. “Don’t worry, they’re rubbish at Greek and I’m not going to read it to them. Hilderbogie will be safe enough.”

“Thank goodness for that.” the Reverend said fervently, opening the door. “Oh, er – thank you for calling, gentlemen. Do let me know if I can be of any further help at all.”

Sherlock shook the hand that the minister offered, with a faint frown. John was just about to do the same when the mobile in his pocket suddenly rang.

“Oh, sorry-“ he began to rummage through the many pockets of the heavy waxed jacket, trying to locate the device. The minister smiled and left them on the front path, making his careful way across the deep snow of the churchyard. 

“You have mobile reception here?!” Sherlock glared at John as if he had offended him deeply. “I've had less than a single bar since we’ve arrived!”

“Poor you, how _have_ you survived?” John muttered, at last extricating the phone from one of his inner pockets. Sherlock pulled out his own phone and paced around, feverishly checking for decent coverage. Judging by his muffled oaths, it was with limited success. 

“Greg?” John asked, answering the call and turning his back on Sherlock with a grin. “Belated happy Christmas, mate. How are you?”

“John! I’ve been trying to get hold of you for an hour, where the hell are you?” Lestrade sounded both relieved and a bit annoyed. “I’ve been ringing round half of London!”

“Oh, er – Scotland. Sorry, didn’t think to tell you. Coverage is dodgy as anything up here. We ended up coming up here for New Years a few days early. Problem?”

 _“Scotland?_ ” Greg repeated blankly, as if John had told him that they were visiting the moon or Antarctica. “Bloody hell. Well… I don’t know if anything’s wrong, really. But your neighbour, a Mrs. Eveline Turner; she’s reported noises from your flat. ‘Cause it was you guys, I got wind of it and came round to take a look. Course, at your place ‘weird noises’ are par for the course, but Mrs. Hudson isn't here and the pair of you clearly haven’t been home for a while. Looks like there’s been a break-in.”

“Oh.” John said blankly. “Well Mrs. Hudson’s away for the holidays, down in Cornwall. I mean, you know us: we probably didn’t leave the place all that tidy. Are you sure?”

“Well Sherlock’s… I mean the back bedroom has been turned over properly. Was the mattress still on the bed when you left? All the pictures have been knocked off the walls, too. Some of the chemistry stuff in the kitchen looks a bit smashed up. But you know… I thought I’d better ask before a formal report gets lodged. Cause it’s _you two.”_ Greg added, rather unnecessarily John thought.

“It wasn’t that bad when we left.” John said slowly, turning and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock frowned at him curiously and he mouthed _break in_. “Can you tell if anything was taken?”

“Well I don’t know what you two leave lying round the place!” Lestrade said wearily. “The telly’s still here, and so is the stereo. Let’s see… the skull’s gone off the mantelpiece.”

“No, Sherlock brought Billy with him. Anything else obvious?”

“That violin of his is worth a few bob, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm, yes. A few. But it’s here too.” John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Crap. I suppose you’d better go ahead and file a report. I’m not sure what they would have been after though. We didn’t leave anything valuable lying round. Or at least _I_ didn’t,” he added, giving Sherlock a hard stare. 

“How about anything incriminating?” Lestrade asked drily. “Again, I only ask because it’s _you two_.”

“No!” John exclaimed hotly, suddenly feeling very glad that the Walther was safely locked in the desk drawer of their room at Violet’s house.

“Sorry. Had to ask.” Lestrade said, without the faintest hint of apology.

“Do you think we should come back? It’s just that we’re sort of in the middle of a case up here and Sherlock seems to have decided to start eating and sleeping on a regular basis again.”

John heard Murdy snort quietly in amusement at the expression on Sherlock’s face. 

“Christ, stay there!” Lestrade said hastily. “Hell, there’s no need. I’ll get the paperwork in; but let’s face it he’ll probably have it figured out within two minutes when you get home. This time of year I’m afraid NSY aren’t going to be putting it at the top of their list of urgent crimes.”

“Right. I’ll give Mrs. Hudson a ring and tell her not to go back to Baker Street before we do, though. I don’t want her to be on her own in case whoever it was decides to come back.”

“Good thinking. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, John.”

“Not your fault. Pain in the arse, though.” John sighed. “Maybe Mycroft will have picked something up on CCTV from across the street or something. Kind of regretting flushing the last lot of surveillance equipment down the loo now.”

“Well get in touch when you’re back in London.” Lestrade instructed him. “And make sure you stay away from the haggis; that stuff is grim. You can bring me back some scotch though!”

“Will do. Cheers, Greg.” John said, hanging up and turning to face Sherlock. “Who the hell would have broken in to 221b?”

Sherlock shrugged moodily. “Any number of people may have their reasons for doing so. It’s been a while, but those Berber assassins might still think they should hold a grudge against me.”

“It doesn’t sound like anything was taken, they just made a bit of a mess.” John glared down at his phone. “I suppose it could have just been opportunistic. Loads of people go away over the holidays and leave empty flats. Might have just been some bored kids.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock looked unconvinced. 

He turned to Murdy, who had been listening to this conversation with considerable interest. “Well, we might as well visit your father’s shop while we’re in town. Lead on, Miss Antonelli.”


	12. Chapter 12

Antonelli’s Grocery was situated near the centre of Hilderbogie, on one corner of the small town square. The blue painted wooden shutters were closed, but the door opened as they made their way across the slushy cobbles. Petty appeared, sweeping dust out onto the snow with a vengeance. She straightened up and stared at Sherlock, John and Murdy curiously as they approached the shop, a slightly anxious smile on her face.

“Hello again, Mr. Holmes; Doctor Watson. Murdy; you’d better get in here and help Pheemy out with the books. She’s been crying on the ledgers again and Dad won’t be happy if they get all smudgy.”

Murdy heaved a long suffering sigh, tipping her head back and closing her eyes with an expression of weary, disgruntled resignation. John stifled a grin, and watched her slouch past her sister into the shop. 

“Toni’s better at maths; but she’s more likely to give Pheemy a ding around the ear if she keeps on wailing.” Petty explained, standing aside to let them into the shadowy emporium. “I take it you fellows want to have a nose around the place then?”

“Please.” Sherlock said, looking around the large dark space with visible interest. “This place has barely changed since I was last in here.”

Petty smiled wrily. “I suspect the stock has. But you’re right; Dad’s always liked the place like this. We’ve had to replace the freezers in the basement and get a new coffee grinder but those are about the only changes in the last fifty years.”

John could believe it. The shop was dark and very high ceilinged, lined with tall mahogany shelves and a scarred dark wooden counter. The floor was laid with large slabs of granite, worn with at least a century of customers’ footsteps. There was no cash register, only a couple of large ledgers on the counter near the door. Huge cured hams and bunches of dried herbs hung on gleaming hooks from the beams overhead; bundles of kindling and logs filled several large willow baskets on the floor. The shelves contained a huge variety of goods; alongside the more predictable packets of cornflakes and bags of sugar there were at least a dozen tall glass jars of boiled sweets and toffees. Tins and jars of esoteric fruits, pickles and jams were piled high next to several brass chutes filled with darkly roasted coffee beans. One corner of the shop was dedicated to an impressive collection of wines, cordials and spirits, venerable looking bottles of whiskey filling two shelves alone. The fruit and vegetable baskets were empty, no doubt after the shop being closed for several days; but labels advertising fresh lychees, white peaches and alphonso mangos made it clear that Mr. Antonelli took pride in stocking an eclectic range of goods. 

“Mycroft and I used to come in here occasionally, as children. He once ate an entire _pound_ of liquorice allsorts and was sick all night.” Sherlock said reminiscently, as if treasuring a particularly fond memory. “It was a _horrible_ colour.” 

“That would have been back when old Miss McGill owned the place.” Petty said, with a bemused look at Sherlock’s expression. “Mum and Dad bought it after she died – I think it was about eighteen years ago.” 

“Hey, Mister Holmes!” Rab poked her head through the heavy beaded curtain that led into a back room. “Figured it out yet?”

“You get back to the potatoes, you little scunner!” Petty ordered her automatically, and without much heat. “If they’re not all done within ten minutes I’ll chop your nose off!”

Rab made an expressive gesture that John was quite sure would have been very rude indeed, if only she hadn’t had a potato peeler in her hand at the time. She disappeared with bad grace and a loud rattle of beads. Petty rolled her eyes and turned back to them. “Dad’s getting out of hospital today, so we’re trying to organise a special dinner for him. Something that involves a _lot_ of vegetables nearing their sell-by date.”

“When do you think that you can open up again?” John asked, looking around. 

She shrugged. “In a day or two. But it’s not so much a case of _when_ , really. Nobody wants to come in here, not when they reckon they could buy something riddled with poison. I couldn’t even _give_ stuff away over the last couple of days; I had a load of fresh tortellini and goats cheese gnocchi that needed cooking and nobody would take it. We’ve lost the job of catering for the Hogmanay ceilidh, too.” Petty glared around the shop, her hands on her hips; and then caught sight of John’s faintly confused expression. “It’s the big annual dance they have in the parish hall on New Years Eve. We’ve supplied the food for years, but all of a sudden we got a note through the door saying that the parish committee has decided to change suppliers.”

“We’ll need to see your accounts.” Sherlock said thoughtfully, casting his eyes along the polished wooden counter. “We need to narrow down the list of customers you had in the days after the tonic water was delivered. I take it that it is usually shelved over here?”

“Yes, indeed.” Petty confirmed, nodding as Sherlock paced over to the shelves of bottles. He stepped through the gap in the counter, swinging the heavy wooden hatch open as he went. He stared at the gap left between the bottles of ginger wine and rose cordial and hummed to himself thoughtfully.

“The police took the rest of the bottles, I assume?” 

“Yes, of course. They went door to door around the village, asking if anyone else had bought it. They wouldn’t believe me when I told them the names of the people who’d bought it; I even showed them the books to prove it. Of course, that spread the news quicker than you can believe.”

“Have you had any trouble from people in the village?” John asked curiously, as Sherlock dodged around to view the shelves from a variety of angles. 

Petty shrugged slightly. “It’s not so bad. I have a feeling that the Reverend might have something to do with that, actually – he’s been awful nice about it, considering what poor Mrs Duncan’s been though. He won’t hear a word against Dad. Says that we’re to let the police sort it out and leave judgement up to the Almighty. A couple of lads shouted at the twins yesterday; but they can dish out far worse than they get. Poor Pheemy is in bits, though – she can’t get over the fact that everyone is ready to believe the worst of us. She tried going to visit Miss Argyle in the hospital, to see how she’s doing; but the old hag shouted horrible names at her before she could say a word.”

“She shouted horrible things at us too,” John said. “I sort of get the impression it’s not terribly personal.”

Petty grimaced slightly. “Ah, yes. I doubt she’d like the fact that you’re pals with Miss Vernet.”

“Not one bit.” John affirmed. 

Petty sighed and looked around the shop thoughtfully, raising an eyebrow slightly when she caught sight of Sherlock ducking and dodging around behind the counter; evidently trying to catch sight of the shelf from all possible angles. “It’s so sad, really. I mean, there’s a very good chance that the shop could go under if things continue like this, if it’s not proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that Dad had nothing to do with the poisoning. He’s always been so proud of this place, and Mum loved it so much. If we lose the shop, it’ll feel a bit like losing another bit of her.”

“Is there always someone present in the stop during opening hours?” Sherlock asked suddenly, from somewhere behind the counter.

“There should be. Of course, there’s always a chance one of us might pop into the back room or the kitchen during a quiet spell; but there’s a bell above the door that lets us know if someone has walked in.” she nodded at the small brass bell that hung on a curled spring above the glass panelled door. 

Sherlock gave it a derisive look. “That’s it? It’s not exactly secure. I can think of at least five ways to get into this establishment without touching that paltry thing.”

Petty bristled slightly. “Look, this isn’t London. People just don’t help themselves to stuff; it’s not only dishonest, but it would be incredibly _rude_. You wouldn’t do that sort of thing to your neighbours.”

“Apart from PC Dalziell, perhaps?” Sherlock challenged her. 

Petty slumped against the counter moodily and crossed her arms. She suddenly looked very much like Murdy. “Yes, alright, apart from that git. Hang on, speak of the devil-!”

She craned her neck, squinting across the snowy square outside. A heavily muffled figure was making their way towards the shop, moving carefully along a particularly icy patch next to the village pump. “He’s never coming in here!”

But as it turned out, he was. John stared at the man with interest, taking in his round ruddy face and slightly anxious expression. He peered curiously through the glass pane on the door and knocked hesitantly. 

With a faintly incredulous expression, Petty moved forward and swung it open. She seemed at rather a loss when she came face to face with the constable, and only managed a faint hello after a second or two of silence.

“Hello there, Petty. Um, are you open?” PC Dalziell asked, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s just that I’ve only gotten home and I’ve no milk.”

“Oh! Er, yes. Come in, then.” she said a little abruptly, and stood aside to let him inside. Dalziell stepped inside, his frozen breath wafting in the dark room. He was a tremendously _average_ looking man, John thought – medium height, medium build, with a blandly good-natured face that one would struggle to describe after any time apart. His accent was similarly vague; rather nondescript with only faint traces of London and Lancashire, as Violet had described. When he pulled off his knitted hat, his hair was neatly trimmed and a completely unexceptional shade of light brown. His round blue eyes opened a little wider at the sight of John and Sherlock and he smiled a little uneasily at them. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to jump the queue, gents. Are you being taken care of?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said coolly, sweeping forward with an outstretched hand. Despite the fact that the detective was rather dusty from crawling around behind the counter and his scarf was hanging from one shoulder; he managed to transform from slightly dishevelled to overtly intimidating in less than a second. He towered over Dalziell and smiled at him grimly. “I believe that you were one of the victims?”

Petty muttered something vague about fetching some fresh milk from the fridge in the back room, and disappeared swiftly. John watched Dalziell swallow convulsively before reaching out to shake Sherlock’s hand. 

“Oh, yes – that’s right.” he smiled humourlessly. “Rotten luck, eh?”

“Luck?” Sherlock echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You believe that you weren’t intended as a victim, then?”

Dalziell waved his arm vaguely, the woollen hat between his fingers flapping a bit. “Um, I haven’t heard all of the facts. But I don’t believe that anyone would particularly want to poison me.”

“You’re the local PC though – surely you must have made an enemy or two over the years?” John queried. He felt slightly mean in joining the interrogation, as the man seemed so deeply uncomfortable. 

“I, er- I haven’t lived in Hilderbogie long enough to make any proper enemies, really.” Dalziell said helplessly. “This is a pretty quiet spot; there’s rarely anything more serious than a spot of poaching or-“

“Shoplifting?” Sherlock asked innocently. 

Dalziell blinked rapidly several times, then shrugged. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve had to break up the occasional fight at the pub, but that’s about it.”

“Here you go, PC Dalziell.” Petty said, re-entering the shop with a glass bottle of milk in either hand. “Sorry to make you wait.”

“Oh thank you, Petty.” Dalziell said, with obvious relief. “How much is that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Petty murmured, putting the bottles on the counter between them and reaching for a pencil. She made a note in a large open ledger before pushing the bottles into his unresisting hands. “We’ve got a fridge full of the stuff and it’s only going to waste. Just drop the bottles back in when you can. I’m very glad to see that you’re on the mend.”

“You’re a very trusting man, PC Dalziell.” Sherlock commented, with a wry little smile. “After all, this is the shop that the poisoned tonic water undoubtedly came from.”  
Petty glowered at Sherlock, her fists clenching at her sides. “That milk was delivered this morning from the dairy over at Muckle Gleikit. There’s nothing wrong with it!”

“I’m sure there isn’t!” John interjected hastily, in an attempt to placate her. The young woman looked like she’d quite like to throw her ledger at Sherlock’s head and he didn’t want to have to bandage him up just yet.

PC Dalziell looked down at the bottles in his hands, their chilly outsides beaded with condensation. The milk inside was so white it almost looked as if it was glowing in the dim light of the shop. “I’m quite sure that it was an isolated incident.” he said quietly. “The Aberdeen constabulary are in charge of the investigation; and I’m quite sure that they’ll get to the bottom of the matter. I’m afraid I’d better be off; Kathy said she’d be popping round for tea before long.”

“Do give our regards to dear Miss Argyle.” Sherlock murmured, as Dalziell crammed his hat back on his head and turned for the door. Dalziell gave them a shaky sort of nod and wrenched the door open, letting it clatter shut noisily behind him as he made his way back across the square. Sherlock watched him go with avid interest.

“That milk is fine!” Petty snapped at him. 

“Undoubtedly.” Sherlock agreed, absently. “But nevertheless: the tonic water did come from here. The constable was nearly fatally poisoned by it, less than a week ago. He of all people in the village should be aware of the risk of criminal intent. I think it would be understandable if he was a bit wary of buying more goods from this establishment, don’t you?”

“What my _sensitive_ and _well-mannered_ friend is trying to say is that Dalziell’s behaviour is a bit odd.” John said, with a sharp look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked unconvincingly wounded, and sniffed. Petty seemed to unruffle slightly. 

“Alright.” she sighed. “Fair enough.”

Pruny poked her head through the bead curtain suddenly. “He knew who you laddies were!”

“He did!” Rab agreed, appearing at her shoulder with a clatter.

“Don’t call the gentlemen ‘laddies!’” Petty glared at her sisters. “They’re grown-ups and it’s not polite!”

“Oh, we’ve been called much worse in our time.” John said, with a small grin at the dismissive shrugs that the twins were giving their sister’s reprimand. 

Sherlock leaned against the counter and folded his arms. He looked at the girls expectantly. “Oh really? What makes you so sure?”

Rab snorted derisively. “Huh. He looked about ready to cack himself when you introduced yourselves. _Not_ when he first saw you; but when you went all swoopy and told him your name.”

“I did not go all _swoopy_ ,“ Sherlock snapped indignantly. 

John turned away and studied a nearby display of teacakes and coconut snowballs with great interest. 

“We hadn’t heard of you before we met you.” Pruny interjected, pushing her way through the curtain and into the shop. “But that bigjob-“

“Pruny!”

“Jings, _fine_ , that _lovely man_ Dalziell certainly had.”

“He’s a policeman; of course he’s heard of Sherlock Holmes!” Petty countered. “Oh, and of you too, Doctor Watson,” she added hastily. 

“If it was just because of that, why did he look so bloody nervous?!” Pruny insisted, waving her arms excitedly. 

“Yeah, surely he should have been fluttering his wee eyelashes at you and asking for your autograph?” Rab agreed, with a nasty little grin at Sherlock; but the latter merely looked thoughtful. 

“Not bad.” he said grudgingly. “Obviously superficial; but not bad.”

“And that’s the highest praise that you’re ever going to get from this one.” John said, clapping Sherlock on the back. The twins seemed to be making an effort not to preen, maintaining an exaggeratedly casual demeanour. 

“So, got everything you need?” John queried. 

Sherlock hummed in a rather non-committal fashion, frowning a little at the drinks shelf. “For now.” He brightened suddenly. “And it must be nearly lunchtime! Come along, John.”

***

Back at Hilderbogie House, Violet was busily sawing at a loaf of tomato and olive-studded focaccia. She looked up and grinned as Sherlock and John entered through the kitchen door, then glared at Sherlock until he scraped the snow off his shoes. Patrick stood at the other end of the table, carefully mixing what looked like fruitcake batter. He nodded at them briefly, before returning his attention to the large bowl in front of him. Benjy, Violet’s Russian Blue cat glared at them from beside the stove.

“Productive morning, vile worms?” Violet queried, brushing a loose curl from her face with a slightly floury forearm. 

“Mm. Quite.” Sherlock confirmed, pulling up a chair to the kitchen table and sitting across from her. He carefully surveyed the wide range of cheeses, fruit, patés and cold meats with a keen eye before greedily reaching for a steaming tureen of French onion soup. 

“We met with Reverend Duncan.” John offered, taking a seat and moving the soup away from Sherlock before he could inhale the entire contents. Violet nodded encouragingly, and took a seat.

“Conclusions? Oh, hang on! Patrick, I think you can stop stirring that now, old thing.” she added, craning her neck so that she could take a glance at the cake mix. Patrick looked up, seeming a little startled. 

“Oh, really?” he peered at the bowl doubtfully, almost as if he was afraid the contents might fight back. “I haven’t been stirring it all that long.”

“You’ll stir all the air right out of it.” Violet said firmly. “Scrape it into that tin over there and come and have some lunch.”

Patrick nodded, and reached for the heavy tarnished cake tin on the nearby dresser. He poured the heavy cinnamon scented batter into it with the incredibly careful air of a man dismantling a bomb or building a house of cards. 

“I’m teaching Patrick how to bake.” Violet said, rather unnecessarily. She watched him scrape the last remnants of cake mix out of the bowl with a certain amount of pride and no little amusement. 

Patrick didn’t look up, carefully smoothing the contents of the tin with the back of a tablespoon. “Should it go into the oven now?”

“Yes, for about an hour. Well done!” Violet squeezed his forearm as Patrick put down the oven gloves and sat down next to her. He smiled and met her gaze warmly as he covered her small hand with his own. 

“The Reverend Duncan says that his wife is a drunk.” Sherlock said baldly, although John was fairly sure that he spotted a momentary, slightly irked expression before he spoke. 

Violet looked around, surprised. “Blimey, is she really? I suppose it would explain why she’s had such a bad time of it, compared to the others.”

“You didn’t know?” John asked, curious. 

Violet shook her head and shrugged. “Well, I barely know the woman. The last time I was in a church was when I married Sherry, and it’s not as if I’m welcome at the infernal parish committee meetings after the _Womanly Arts_ debacle. She seems nice enough and I say hello to her in the street; but I’ve never even been inside the vicarage.”

“The Reverend has obviously taken great pains to keep the fact hidden.” Sherlock mused, tearing off a great chunk of bread and dipping it into his soup. John passed the remainder down to Patrick before the rest of it disappeared entirely.

“Well, it’s hardly good press; is it?” said Violet. “Temperance and good behaviour are part of the job description, if you’re a minister’s wife.”

“It’s not exactly a motive for anyone to want to poison her, either.” John mused. “Oh, and then I got a call from our friend Greg with the Met, telling us that our flat was broken into!”

“Buggering arsebiscuits!” Violet sighed sympathetically, and Patrick made a concerned noise. 

“Well it doesn’t sound like anything was taken.” John shrugged. “It’ll just be a bit of mess to clean up when we get home.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and reached for a huge slab of cheddar from the cheese dish. “Mycroft will sort it out. I took Mummy Christmas shopping at Harrods a few weeks ago; the very _least_ he owes me after that horror is the services of a few of his minions.”

John noticed that Patrick was paying very careful attention to his plate, and did not react to the mention of the name in any way. Violet shot Sherlock a quelling look.  
“Anything else with the poisonings?”

“PC Dalziell. Former criminal.” Sherlock said brightly. 

John choked slightly. “He- what?!”

“Oh, honestly John! Wasn’t it glaringly obvious, even to you?” Sherlock frowned curiously. Violet threw an oatcake at him before John could do more than bristle.

“But he’s a policeman! How did a former criminal get to be a policeman?!”

“By not getting caught.” Sherlock explained, with the air of a man forced to perform a deeply tedious task. “But didn’t you see how he automatically positioned himself in relation to the cashbox on the counter? The way he stood in the spot with the lowest possible amount of natural light, as soon as he saw us? Those odious twins were quite right; he was clearly nervous of us. He had heard of me, and wasn’t happy about the encounter. What’s more, before I introduced myself he took off his hat in preparation of stealing and hiding something inside it. He was only popping in to get milk and the shop was almost as chilly as the outdoors after Petronella had had the door propped open; why else would he take off his hat? It was a dreadful knitted one; not the kind of hat one doffs out of politeness. The callouses I felt on his fingers, too – it’s been a while but the PC is a man who knows how to use lockpicks and has done so for considerable amounts of time in the past. He’s a man who got himself a respectable job and moved to a remote Scottish village to get away from something.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to turn over a new leaf?” Patrick suggested, looking intrigued. 

“Hardly, if he’s willing to fiddle the tombola and pinch things from Mr. Antonelli’s shop.” Violet pointed out reasonably before Sherlock could make a scathing remark. “Golly, I wonder if Miss Argyle knows? I bet not!” 

She propped her chin on her hand and grinned a slightly dreamy, malicious grin. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be there when she finds out….”

***

After lunch, Sherlock made for the door and declared that he was planning to go and Think. But when John shrugged and nodded, and began to help Violet and Patrick clear the dishes from the table he paused at the threshold, looking mildly affronted. 

“But what are you _doing?”_

“I’m being a nice man who gives his friends a hand with the washing up.” John said pointedly, rolling up his sleeves and making for the sink in the scullery. 

Violet sidled up to him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “He really is a _terribly_ nice man.” she purred. “I might just decide to keep him.”

Sherlock’s face crunched into an angry, slightly pink grimace. “Violet, I have told you repeatedly to keep your greedy little hands off my blogger!”

John began to whistle under his breath, reaching for the washing up liquid. He tried very hard not to laugh. He knew very well that Violet had no intentions towards him beyond making Sherlock jealous; but a small part of him felt that teasing him like this was perhaps a tiny bit mean. 

It didn’t make it any less amusing, though. 

Violet squeezed him playfully around the middle before letting go, grinning malevolently at Sherlock as he snatched the tea-towel she held in her outstretched hand. With a very bad grace he began to dry the wet plates that John passed him, noisily piling them up next to the sink. 

“Well, I think these two have things under control, Patrick.” Violet said blithely, taking his arm. “Let’s get back to our easels, eh?”

Patrick’s mouth twitched a little as he allowed Violet to steer him towards the doorway.

“She only does it to wind you up, you do know that right?” John sighed, nudging Sherlock after the door swung shut behind them. He glanced up at Sherlock’s mutinous face and suppressed a grin. 

Sherlock sniffed, and dropped a clean plate onto the pile next to him with a loud clatter. “Back in Edinburgh. She said that you were _adorable_.” he said, in a disgusted tone. 

“She said that I was _fucking_ adorable, if I recall correctly.” John replied seriously, handing Sherlock a dripping ceramic bowl. Sherlock ground his teeth a little. 

“She keeps _touching_ you!” he complained. 

“Yes, which is fine by me. Doesn’t mean that she’s planning to seduce me; it just means that she knows how you react when she does it.” John emptied the water from the large Belfast sink and wiped his hands on the towel in Sherlock’s hands. “You might have noticed that she touches Patrick quite a lot too. And I’m fairly sure she’s not trying to lure him into her bed either.” He frowned slightly. “At least I don’t think she is. Anyway, she’ll stop flirting with me if you stop looking like a thunderstorm every time she does it.”

Sherlock sighed and threw the damp tea towel down on the counter, before nodding irritably. “Fine.”

“I’m going to make some tea and then I’ll come join you. I don’t really see _why_ I need to be in the same room as you when you decide to have a think, though. I mean, anything higher than a stage 2 contemplation and you’re practically catatonic.” he nudged Sherlock again. “Not that I mind, you daft git.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It helps.” he said simply, evidently believing that further elaboration was unnecessary. “But anyway, I didn’t actually mean it this time. I only said that I was going to think because I thought it was an efficient way to get you out of this infernal kitchen and into our room. You never like it when I ask you to come to bed in front of other people; it makes your ears go all red and your face all grumpy.”

“Ah.” John blinked, and grinned. “Well, we’ll have to establish some kind of code then. I wouldn’t have minded leaving Patrick with the washing up, if I knew that’s what your game was.”

“I very much doubt that Patrick has ever washed a dish in his life.” Sherlock pointed out in a scathing tone. 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” John muttered, towing him towards the door. “I made a note on the calendar last time you did the dishes at Baker Street. It was in May.”

“May isn’t so long ago!” Sherlock protested, studiously ignoring the snowy landscape outside the windows they were swiftly passing on their way down the chilly corridor. “And it’s not as if I’m even the one making all the mess with all the _cooking_ and the _eating_ ”

“It was May last year.” John pointed out. “I kept the calendar though. It seemed like a momentous date.”

The door to the morning room was open as they passed it; glancing in, John could see Patrick and Violet sitting side by side in the wide bay window, each in front of a tall easel. Patrick was hunched thoughtfully over his canvas, letting a wide bristled brush dangle from his idle fingers as he surveyed the sweeping white landscape of garden, river and hills. He seemed unaware of Violet studying him intently, her hand moving swiftly across her canvas as she sketched him in profile.

“So does Vi really have pictures of you in the altogether?” John murmured thoughtfully, as Sherlock tugged at his sleeve and began to hustle him towards the wide stone staircase. “I’d be interested in having a look. Just out of idle curiosity, mind.”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look and did not answer. 

Their room was chilly, the fireplace unlit since the day before. It didn’t stop John from swiftly pulling his jumper over his head and moving towards Sherlock with a cheerfully lascivious smile; his hands already moving towards the buttons on his tailored shirt. He loved it when Sherlock was like this. Being a bit pushy and demanding was nothing new, but it never failed to startle him slightly when Sherlock decided to ignore everything else, ignore a _case_ even, in favour of losing himself in sex. John hadn’t expected that when he and Sherlock had begun this; had fully expected Sherlock to forget about such mundane pleasures during the thrill of casework. And, frequently, he did – John was still quite used to sleeping alone. But when Sherlock pushed it all aside to focus his absolute attention on John, it made him feel a bit breathless. Nobody had ever watched him with such utter scrutiny; nobody ever measured his every shaking breath and twitching muscle like Sherlock did. On some level he thought it should scare the life out of him. But feeling like he interested Sherlock to the exclusion of everything else made his heart feel weirdly tight in his chest. 

Sherlock kissed him gently, and John could feel the faint smile in the curve of his lips as the clever fingers worked their way around to his belt buckle. “You can be such a sentimental idiot, my dear John.” he murmured, his voice rumbling low as he rubbed his cheek against John’s ear. 

“The mind reading thing? Not particularly sexy, you know.” John muttered, gasping a little as Sherlock bit down on his earlobe. He pulled the tails of Sherlock’s shirt out of the back of his trousers and ran his fingers up the hard ridge of his spine, chuckling a little as Sherlock hissed at the coldness of his fingertips. “Come on, let’s get under the covers before we lose any extremities to frostbite.”

They reluctantly broke apart, Sherlock somehow managing to divest himself of the entirety of his clothes with all their inconvenient buttons far faster than John could shrug out of his tee shirt and jeans. The sight of his long pale body in the cold afternoon light made John’s fingers slow as he worked at his shoelaces; he stared at the white glow that outlined the familiar yet still somehow startling lines of him. Sherlock’s body was still a bit too thin, his ribs visible and scattered with scars and occasional small dark moles. His shoulders seemed even broader when he was undressed, his waist dipping sharply above his narrow hips. The darkness of his sparse body hair and the dusky pink of his nipples and half-erect cock only made the milkiness of his skin more apparent. 

John only realised that he had stopped moving altogether and was simply just _staring_ when Sherlock cleared his throat meaningfully and raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Any time you’re ready.” he murmured coolly, moving around the edge of the high bed and sliding under the heavy covers. His eyes were pale in the harsh light, fond despite his sardonic words. John blinked and flushed, ridiculously. Getting lost in the sight of Sherlock still happened with embarrassing regularity; even after months of finally being allowed to look at him like this. He said nothing, and kicked off his shoes and socks, swiftly followed by the rest of his clothes before diving under the covers and into Sherlock’s long arms. He tangled their legs together, laughing a little as Sherlock made a small noise of complaint when he pressed his cold feet against his calf. 

“Come on, then.” John whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s long neck. “Warm me up.”

Sherlock pulled one of the heavy linen sheets over both their heads, the light warm and diffuse as it filtered through the fabric. He reached out for John, one of his large hands tugging at his hip until they lay pressed together, John’s thigh hitched over his hip. John could feel the warm weight of Sherlock’s thick cock pressing against his own and moaned quietly; rocking his hips and feeling the gorgeous drag of friction. Sensitive skin against skin. Sherlock’s fingers trailed slowly along the length of his thigh, the sensation of his nails dragging across John’s skin making him shudder slightly. He inhaled sharply as Sherlock’s calloused fingertips traced the curve of his arse, dipping around to caress his inner thighs with a maddeningly light touch. 

“You’re _very_ warm, just here.” Sherlock whispered, leaning in to kiss him again and licking slowly into his willing mouth. “You’re hot and a bit damp, beginning to sweat.”

His fingers pressed and teased John’s perineum gently, drawing languid patterns against the taut flesh there. John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and moaned; his own hand sliding inexorably down Sherlock’s spine and along the cleft below. He pushed two fingers between Sherlock’s cheeks, straining to reach the tight opening there. Sherlock keened faintly and arched his back to allow John to rub against him in slow circles with just the very tips of his middle and index fingers. 

“Lube?” John panted, squirming and ducking so that he could catch Sherlock’s flushed nipple between his teeth.

Sherlock slipped his hand beneath a pillow and produced a small bottle, which he slapped hastily into John’s hand without ceremony.

“A little eager, are we?” John grinned, pulling back and opening the bottle with a snap. Sherlock stared at him from beneath the tangle of his dark hair, his pupils visibly dilating. 

He didn’t speak, but his chest was heaving; his cock darkly swollen and thick against his stomach. John swallowed hard and emptied a generous handful of the slick fluid into his palm before reaching out to take Sherlock’s length in his hand without waiting to let it warm. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and writhed at his touch; his breath hissed from between his teeth but he moved instinctively closer to John, his hand dipping down to swipe some of the trickling lube from between his fingers. John gasped at the first touch of Sherlock’s long fingers against his arse, his cock sliding slick against Sherlock’s as the tip of one nudged slowly at his entrance.

“You want this?” Sherlock murmured, almost inaudibly in his ear. 

“Yes!” John gasped, startled and almost light-headed at the sensation. Sherlock hadn’t done this, not since that terrible, awkward afternoon months before. Sherlock had probably touched and licked every inch of him several times over since then; but he had carefully refrained from penetrating John with so much as his little finger. “Yes, oh… _oh_ …..Jesus! _Ohh_ …” 

He had slipped his own fingers deep inside Sherlock several times as he sucked his cock, grazing the swollen nub of his prostate until the detective thrashed and cried out, pulsing hot and wet into his throat. 

But this was new; this was strange and tight and oh, fucking _amazing_. He sucked wetly at Sherlock’s neck as the slick finger pushed slowly through the ring of muscle; feeling the resistance at the first knuckle. Sherlock paused, and John inhaled deeply; lying still and willing himself to relax a little more. He arched his back to allow himself to kiss Sherlock clumsily and whispered: “Go on. More. Oh god, please, _more_ , Sherlock…”

Sherlock responded by pulling him even closer, pressing kisses to his temple and in his hair as he gently pushed a little deeper. John was only dimly aware of his surroundings, of the rest of his body – he was so focussed on the deep, slightly alien feel of being penetrated; of the pressure of Sherlock’s fingertip stroking and pressing insistently inside him. It only took a minute or so to get used to the feeling of one slender finger inside him; pulsing in and out of his body slowly. When he opened his mouth to plead for more, he was distantly shocked at the hoarse broken tone of his own voice and then at the sudden sensation of Sherlock’s mouth wet and open against his own; his tongue fierce and demanding.

“You want this so much, don’t you?” Sherlock whispered breathlessly when he broke away for air. He could only nod helplessly, feeling his muscles tense and squeeze around the knuckle buried inside of him. John nearly cried out when Sherlock slipped free entirely, then gave a deep guttural moan when two fingertips dripping with even more lube began to seek entrance. The stretch was more acute this time, he had to fight to relax but it was a delicious ache as they slipped deep inside him; rocking in and fucking him gently, persistently. Sherlock began to move again, rubbing his slick cock against John’s aching erection. The increased sensation made him cry out weakly, almost overwhelmed with the combination of friction against his heavy balls and aching cock and the insistent, tight feeling of two fingers buried to the hilt inside of him. He squirmed slightly, unsure about how to move until Sherlock awkwardly pulled his thigh back over his hip with his free hand. Sherlock continued to rock against him; his breath coming hard and fast. The new position stretched John even wider and allowed Sherlock to push even deeper, stroking and sliding against the hot slick walls of his rectum. He jerked suddenly as Sherlock changed the angle of his fingers, curling them in a slightly different direction than before. 

“Aaah… oh, god, Sherlock- please!” he swallowed hard, burying one of his hands in Sherlock’s sweaty curls and _whining_. “Right there. Right there. Oh god, yes, _there!_ ”

The sensation was so strange that he wasn’t even sure if he _liked_ it at first. It was so intense, so overwhelming that it felt like his nerves were sparking alight like newly struck matches with each sweep of Sherlock’s fingertips. He just knew that he wanted to keep feeling it, again and again; he could do nothing more than hold on tightly to Sherlock’s hot, shaking body and moan as the sensation overtook him. The skin on his entire body seemed to have tightened; his cock aching as Sherlock rutted against him. He could feel the rush and bloom of the orgasm coming now, flooding through his spine and thighs; his balls full and taut. Sherlock kissed him again deeply, not bothering to hide the tremors that wracked his body as his own release approached. John’s spine arched furiously as he came, crying out helplessly against Sherlock’s mouth as he spurted messily over his stomach and twitching cock. Sherlock moaned quietly as he came, his fingers slipping out of John’s arse and wrapping around his waist tightly. He buried his face in the crook of John’s neck and held on fiercely, their chests heaving against each other. 

John didn’t think he was going to be capable of moving again for quite some time; possibly never. He lay bonelessly, exhausted in Sherlock’s arms; their legs tangled and breath slowing gradually. He felt wrung out; strangely weak but almost euphoric. He laughed almost inaudibly, letting his head fall back onto the sheets and closing his eyes.

“Christ. That was…” he broke off and groaned. “That was amazing. I may never be able to move again, but it was _completely_ worth it.”

Sherlock grinned lazily, running his fingers along John’s torso until they slipped through a patch of slick come, which he absently spread in idle stripes on John’s stomach. “Only amazing?”

“Amazing. Mind-blowing. Fantastic. I’ll write you a list of adjectives later on, when the rest of my brain cells have reassembled themselves.” John laughed, turning and pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock hummed quietly and kissed his forehead. “Make sure you do.”

“So, er-“ John swallowed and sighed. “Lovely surprise and all that; but what brought this on? Was it what we talked about on the train?”

Sherlock didn’t reply for several seconds, blinking and staring at the ceiling as he seemed to be searching for words. “Not just that.” he said, eventually. “Part of that, I suppose.”

“Will you do it again?” John asked, probably a little too eagerly. He wriggled up the bed a few more inches, so that his head was level with Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well maybe not immediately, John.”

“Shut up.” John laughed, elbowing him gently. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, of _course_ I’ll do it again. Admittedly I didn’t realise that you’d react quite so… favourably.” Sherlock quirked a smile, turning his head and catching John’s eye. 

“Reduced me to a gibbering wreck, more like.” John pointed out with an answering grin. “It was fucking _incredible.”_

“You see…” Sherlock sighed, pushing the tangled sheets down a little and resting his head on his outstretched arm as he faced John fully, “You see… I’ve come to the conclusion that if you want it so much, we can try it again.”

“Try…?” John blinked. His stomach clenched a little, already feeling faint nerves and anticipation. “Oh! Well, only if you’re sure.”

“And only if you are.” Sherlock replied evenly, his eyes boring deep into John’s. 

“Yes.” John said, simply. (Oh god. Oh god, we’re really going to-?)

“But with a few conditions.” Sherlock murmured, knotting his fingers in the sheets. “I’ve come up with a few ideas about how to approach the issue.”

“And these are?” he asked, curiously. 

“We go slowly.” Sherlock said immediately. “And not all at once, either.”

“Ah, I see. You’ve got a new schedule.” John suppressed a smile. “Good thinking.”

“So, it’s going to involve working up to full penetration.” Sherlock explained seriously. “I… I need to be sure, you see. That I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.” John whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Of course you won’t.” 

“But I need to be sure.” Sherlock insisted. “I need to know how you feel, at all times. Alright?”

“Of course.” John frowned. “I’ll give you updates every minute, if you like.”

“Well, that’s not entirely how the plan works, you see.” Sherlock said, seeming oddly determined. “I need to experience it with you.”

John stared at him, feeling more than a little perplexed. “Well you are. You’re going to be here, with me. I mean, that’s sort of the point.”

“No, you misunderstand me.” Sherlock said quietly. “What I mean is; whatever I do to you, I want you to do to me.”

A faint sense of unease began to worm its’ way into John’s chest. “You mean-“

“Yes. You’ve already had your fingers in me several times, and I like it.” Sherlock said, in a determinedly blasé way. “So I felt confident doing it to you.”

(Oh, god. It’s not like I don’t want to; but this is potentially a really incredibly Not Good idea…)

“But Sherlock-!” John protested. “Look, I get it. It’s a logical conclusion, in a twisted sort of way. But mentally, you and me… we’re approaching this from different directions. I’ve got no experience, and you’ve got… you’ve got the bad kind.” he reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers trailing across the dip of his collarbone. 

Sherlock looked slightly mutinous. “It’s how I can guage what you’re feeling, John. I know that if we’re careful, it doesn’t have to hurt. But I think I need to experience it that way, too. It makes sense in my head…” he broke off, looking frustrated. “It’s complicated.”

John stared at him, could almost hear the tangle of thoughts seething in Sherlock’s mind. “Back in Edinburgh… back then, you told me that you wanted to eclipse all the bad things. That you wanted me to be your only frame of reference when it comes to sex. Is this about that?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded, reaching for John’s hand and holding it tightly. “If I were to be melodramatic about it, I suppose I’d call it some kind of exorcism. But I am obviously not melodramatic, and exorcisms are a ludicrous concept.” he added, firmly. 

John smiled weakly. “You do know that you’re talking to someone with PTSD, right? Getting past stuff like this – it’s not always that straightforward or logical. Sometimes it seems really obvious and sensible on paper… and it just doesn’t work that way. There’s always a risk of something being a trigger for a bad memory; something you might not anticipate despite all of your careful planning.”

“Then if it doesn’t work; we’ll stop.” Sherlock said, simply. “Besides, I don’t have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, don’t be absurd.”

“I reckon I need to have a think about this.” John said quietly, after a long moment in which he diplomatically said nothing about the last statement. “It’s… quite a lot to think about.”

“Then think. And tell me when you’ve made up your mind.” Sherlock said brusquely. “Just don’t take forever about it.”

“I’ll take as long as I bloody well need.” John replied, without rancour. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and held him tightly, all too aware of how fast Sherlock’s heart was beating. “We’ve got all the time in the world, anyhow.”


	13. Chapter 13

John only meant to sleep for a few minutes, but when he drifted awake he was a little startled to find the bedroom in almost total darkness. The long curtains at the tall narrow windows were still undrawn, showing little beyond an inky sky and a scattering of stars. 

The room was considerably warmer than it had been earlier; Sherlock had lit the fire and was curled up thoughtfully on the old sofa in front of it. The flames were the only source of light in the shadowy room, and it took John a couple of tries to rouse him. 

The detective blinked several times before frowning and turning around to face John where he sat up in the high bed, swaddled in layers of dishevelled sheets and blankets. “-well, no; I don’t see a military angle to it at this point.” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility, though.”

“Actual me. Not mind-palace me.” John pointed out gently, rubbing his eye and yawning.

Sherlock sighed, as if John was being difficult. “It would be _so_ much easier if the two of you could just learn to _communicate.”_

John laughed a little, wrapped himself in one of the heavy blankets and came to join Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock was wearing his warmest woollen dressing gown and his hair was standing up in wild tufts; in the firelight his skin looked warm and oddly golden. John gazed at him rather fondly until he chose to burrow his bare feet under the end of his blanket; pressing his cold toes into John’s warm thigh and causing him to recoil a bit. 

“Jesus! Get some bloody slippers, why don’t you?!” John glared, pushing the long bony feet away and swaddling himself more tightly in his blanket. Sherlock ignored him and contented himself with stretching his legs out over John’s lap. 

“There’s a possibility of military involvement.” Sherlock said, clearly picking up the thread of a conversation he’d been having in his head. “The atropine.”

“Military?” John asked, trying to catch up. “What? How?”

“Sourcing atropine. It’s not an easy thing to do without arousing suspicion.” Sherlock explained. “I mean, it would be simple enough to buy it from someone online, but tricky to pull off without creating some kind of paper trail or digital footprint. One could make it oneself from raw materials; but it’s complex and time sensitive. It’s the wrong time of year, as well – the poison would have degraded by now if it was made with fresh deadly nightshade. A military connection is a possibility, if only a minor one.”

John racked his brains as he stared into the fire. He stroked Sherlock’s rather knobbly ankle thoughtfully. “Ah! Hang on, I see. Sarin, right?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock nodded, looking pleased. “Atropine is frequently carried by members of the military who are deemed likely to encounter chemical warfare, usually Sarin gas. If administered swiftly following an attack, atropine is a very effective antidote.”

“It’s still not all that common, though.” John pointed out. “I mean, only a very small number of British personnel would have access to it.”

“Or British personnel who were stationed at camps alongside American or other troops.” Sherlock countered. “As I said, it’s a minor possibility. It’s wise to cover all the bases,” he added a little defensively. 

“Fair enough. It should be easy enough to check who has military connections in a village this size.”

“Yes. We can add that to the list of cross-references we can run against the customers at Antonelli’s.” Sherlock mused. “Anyhow, it’s nearly seven. Go and take a bath; I doubt Violet will forgive us if we are late for cocktail hour two days in a row.”

***

As it turned out, the drawing room was empty when they entered it, and so was the kitchen. The latter room was dark, and warm from the huge Aga and the low-burning fireplace; but sadly lacking in any evidence of any dinner preparations. Sherlock looked faintly alarmed at this, and led the search party along the chilly stone corridors of the ground floor, pausing only when he reached the open doors of the morning room. 

Violet and Patrick were still in there; surrounded by the scattered remains of a large afternoon tea, many discarded sheets of paper and a miscellany of art supplies. Violet was no longer working, although she obviously had been busy – a canvas gleaming with damp paint was propped on her easel. She still wore the pale green dress she had on from that morning, and she was curled up in an old chintz armchair with her chin in her hand. She was watching Patrick avidly. 

Patrick seemed entirely unaware of his surroundings, indeed unaware of anything besides the canvas he was working on. His hair was unusually dishevelled, hastily tied back with several long strands hanging in his intent face. His dark tweed jacket lay discarded in a heap on the carpet, and his normally pristine linen shirt sleeves were crumpled, dotted and streaked with pigment. John found it so strange to see him like this that it took him a moment to take any notice of what Patrick was painting. But when he did take the time to look over his shoulder and study the thickly applied watercolour, he couldn’t help staring. 

It had probably started off as a straightforward snowy landscape, a simple study of the starkly beautiful view outside the large bay windows. But at some point it had become bleak and faintly worrying. Long shadows that John was certain he hadn’t seen in the garden were scattered across the snow-covered lawns and under the pines. The sky was empty, the hills deserted. The only signs of life in the painting were an ominous row of black crows on a distant stone wall. 

As limited as John’s knowledge of art was, he could tell that it was remarkably good. But it made him feel uncomfortable, and it was certainly nothing that he would ever want to hang on his wall. It made him think of times that he tried very hard to forget; of insomniac nights spent staring at the walls and days of eerily lost hours, his stomach seething with nameless dread and regret. 

He swallowed hard and found himself gripping Sherlock’s sleeve tightly. He hadn’t consciously reached out for him. Sherlock looked down at him curiously, a faintly worried frown on his face. 

Violet suddenly made an elaborate show of stretching her arms and shapely legs, levering herself out of her armchair with a yawn. “Good evening, you cantankerous boils! What sort of time is it?”

Patrick stopped painting abruptly, and sat back in his chair. He stared at his work for a few seconds, before carefully setting down his brush on the ledge of his easel. Violet sauntered over to John and pulled at his arm so that she could peer at his wristwatch. If she noticed the way that the fingers of his right hand were still holding tight to the cuff of Sherlock’s jacket, she chose not to mention it. 

“Blimey, it’s well after seven! And I haven’t done a thing about dinner. Has Sherlock begun gnawing on passing scabby donkeys and the legs of furniture yet?” she grinned, turning to Patrick. “Come on, old thing. Let’s call it a day.”

Patrick nodded silently, still studying his painting with an odd look on his face. After a moment or two he stretched and stood up a little stiffly. He looked tired and a bit drawn; but something in his manner seemed a little more peaceful than he had been before. 

He nodded at John and Sherlock, then ruefully caught sight of his reflection in one of the large gilt mirrors on the wall. “Goodness, what a mess I’ve made of myself!”

“Rot.” Violet said cheerfully, taking his arm. “You look decidedly dashing when you’re a bit crumpled round the edges – it’s one of those things that only the most handsome men can pull off, you lucky git. Come on, let’s go find ourselves an aperitif and see what’s lurking in the fridge. Your culinary education awaits, Patrick!”

He gave her a small, grateful smile as she leant companionably into his side, leading him towards the door. Sherlock didn’t move, glancing over his shoulder until the pair had disappeared around the corner. 

“I’m here.” he said quietly, after a minute. “It’s alright; I’m right here.”

John looked up at him, faintly startled. “What?”

Sherlock looked pointedly at his sleeve, which John still hadn’t released. The fine wool was getting rather creased where it was clamped between John’s fingers, and he let go a little sheepishly. He felt rather foolish, and glared at the patch of fabric; unwilling to meet Sherlock’s gaze again although he could almost feel it boring into the side of his face. 

“Sorry. Sort of… drifted for a moment there.” he muttered. “Come on, let’s go.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he unexpectedly caught hold of John’s hand as he made for the door. Holding hands wasn’t something they did, not usually. Not out of bed, anyway. Their difference in height always made it a bit awkward; on some unspoken level John felt a bit childlike with his smaller hand engulfed in Sherlock’s.

(Or maybe, let’s be honest here Watson, maybe just a tiny bit like a girl?)

Right now though, he found that didn’t mind at all. As they moved out of the morning room, he glanced back at the painting where it sat unfinished on the easel. It made him shiver slightly and he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s fingers; profoundly grateful that he didn’t seem to be expected to explain his reaction. 

He doubted Sherlock had seen anything more than a snow-covered landscape in the painting; art was not something that concerned him beyond the clues that it held. The idea of conveying any kind of emotion through the medium of paint always seemed to perplex him a little. But what Sherlock could read was the way that John reacted to it; could sense his anxiety, irrational as it was. He might not understand the motivation; but he was adept at recognising the effects. 

And part of John wondered if he was just imagining it, if he was just projecting something that still hung around stubbornly in the back of his mind and refused to go away entirely. But he doubted that Violet would have been so intrigued by the work if it were merely a straightforward rendering of nature.

“Empathy is a curious phenomenon.” Sherlock murmured pensively as they made their way down the corridor. “I’ve often suspected that you suffer more from it than most people do.”

“I dunno about that.” John half smiled. “And you make it sound like a terrible disease.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but didn’t let go of John’s hand until they reached the kitchen. 

When they got there, the room was more brightly lit; Patrick was holding a match to some candles on the mantelpiece and in the worn silver candlesticks on the table. Violet was visible through the open door of the larder, standing on tiptoe as she thoughtfully rummaged through various jars and cans. John took the dusty bottle of red wine that she thrust into his hands as he passed the door, and set to work pouring some into the glasses he took from the dresser. 

Sherlock sat down at the table and was promptly ordered to start chopping some tomatoes and garlic, which he did with remarkable skill and only a minimum amount of complaint. John watched him curiously as the knife blurred on the chopping board, pulling up a chair and taking a sip of the heady wine. Sherlock’s face was furrowed in concentration; it seemed as if each piece was so meticulously sliced that one would need callipers to spot any variation in size. Similarly the garlic was finely and swiftly chopped that it soon resembled a paste on one corner of the scarred wooden board.

“Ah. I see you haven’t forgotten everything I taught you, then?” Violet asked approvingly, coming and taking a swig from Sherlock’s neglected wineglass.

Sherlock glared at her. “Any fool can chop a vegetable.”

“And yet the eyes seem to be about ready to drop out of John’s head.” Violet countered, sweeping the board away and dropping the contents into a heavy copper pan on the stove with a fragrant hiss. “Something tells me you don’t make _Puttanesca_ for him very often.”

“Hang on!” John interjected. “Hang on, just a moment. Do you mean to tell me that Sherlock actually knows how to cook? You taught _Sherlock_ to cook? I mean, you taught him to cook like _you?_ ”

“Well of course I did!” Violet said, over her shoulder. “He was going to go off to Uni without knowing how to even boil an egg! It’s these terrible public schools; they teach them absolutely bloody nothing useful, you know.”

“Thank you _so_ much, Violet.” Sherlock muttered bitterly, slouching down in his seat and taking a mouthful of wine. 

“All these years, you’ve been living on take-away and toast and moaning about how boring digestion is; and you know how to cook? I mean, properly cook?” John stared at him in growing outrage. 

Patrick laughed quietly, opening the jars of ingredients that Violet had handed him and leaving them within arms reach of the stove. “Goodness, Mr. Holmes. That seems a terrible cruelty to John; if you’ve been able to cook like Violet all this time.”

“But I _can’t_ cook like Violet!” Sherlock muttered darkly. “It never made any sense; but that horrible baggage was always _better_ at it than me!” He practically spat the last statement, and John avoided Patrick’s eyes in an attempt not to giggle.

“You’re a perfectly good cook!” Violet protested. “Better than most people I know, anyway.”

“Oh my god! I know what it is!” John breathed. “You couldn’t be the best so you decided that you’d never do it again!”

“It was a complete waste of my time.” Sherlock sniffed. “And it’s not as if it would have been of the slightest use to me in my chosen profession.”

“You’ve eaten cold rice pudding straight out of the tin, rather than cook dinner.” John marvelled. “You absolute git; you could have been cooking me Sunday lunch all these years!”

“Violet!” Sherlock growled. “Violet, see? See what you’ve _done?!_ ”

“And you pull that face when I put anything in front of you, like eating my shepherds pie is the biggest chore in the world….” John marvelled.

“Well I hope you’re happy with yourself!” Sherlock snapped at Violet, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Oh my god, what is the _point?_ Food gets made; one eats it and then it’s gone! It’s an intrinsically pointless exercise, as one is merely left with sluggish thought processes and no lasting evidence of one’s labours!”

“So you won’t be wanting any dinner, then?” Violet asked sweetly, crossing the kitchen with a large plate of steaming pasta and setting it in front of John. The rich, salty tang of anchovies, chili, garlic and herbs assailed his senses and his mouth instantly began to water. He picked up his fork with a grin and speared a glistening black olive. Sherlock wrinkled his nose huffily, but his eyes never left the fork as it made its way towards John’s lips. 

“Mere fuel.” he declared haughtily, but a brief scuffle ensued between he and Violet when she attempted to withhold his plate.

Patrick took a seat next to John, again watching with an oddly fascinated expression as Sherlock began to shovel linguine into his mouth with ill-concealed relish. 

John cleared his throat meaningfully and gave Sherlock a hard stare. “You’re cooking me dinner, you berk. Even if it’s only just the once.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued to eat. 

Violet sat down and picked up her fork, beginning to eat with rather more restraint and meeting his filthy look with obvious glee. “Oh, and wee Murdy Antonelli dropped off some ledgers from the shop for you earlier.” she nodded towards a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string on the table inside the kitchen door. “Poor thing. She looked a bit frazzled, so I gave her some cake and directed her towards the library. I think having that many sisters can be a bit wearing for her.”

“Well having to deal with those ghastly children as younger siblings must certainly be a trial.” Sherlock agreed. “I imagine we will be able to narrow down our list of suspects considerably with the sales records in the ledgers. It’s not really the kind of shop where one goes to browse; customers have to ask for most things from behind the counter. It should be safe to assume that most people who went in were actually buying items.”

“Does this mean that the tonic water was on a shelf behind the shop counter?” Patrick asked, looking thoughtful. “Surely it would attract attention, if a customer stepped behind it?”

“Yes, but it’s not too far from the hatch opening in the counter.” John offered. “It would be easy enough to nip in there quickly when one of the Antonelli’s backs were turned.”

“It would still require a certain amount of distraction.” Sherlock said, in between large mouthfuls of his second helping of pasta. “Accessing the tonic would be simple enough; but the act of injecting the bottles would take considerably longer. It had to be done with precision and care, next to the rim of the bottle where the puncture mark would be destroyed when the seal was broken. To do that to four bottles? At least forty-five seconds, but probably longer.”

“Also depends on whether an individual syringe of poison was used each time; or if it had to be refilled from a bottle of atropine between each injection.” John noted. “That would affect the time frame. When Petty was fetching the milk earlier, she was gone for less than a minute.”

“They keep other stuff off the main shop floor, though.” said Violet. “They keep frozen meat and ice-cream and things in freezers in the basement. So if someone asked for a few different items, whoever was serving that day could easily have been out of the store for a few minutes.” 

“So one further narrow down the list of suspects based on the number and type of items they bought!” Patrick interjected. 

Violet grinned at him fondly, with a hint of pride. “Look at you, getting all sleuthy!”

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, pulled John’s plate towards himself and muttered: _“Obvious.”_

***

The evening ended with more wine and slices of Patrick’s admittedly rather good fruitcake in front of the fire in the drawing room. Sherlock lounged lazily on the hearthrug, propped up against John’s shins. John slouched down into his overstuffed armchair, warmed by the firelight and wine; content to listen to Violet and Sherlock bicker drowsily over whose turn it was to fetch more firewood. 

Patrick was quiet as usual, reclining elegantly in a corner of the sofa that Violet had dragged a little closer to the white marble fireplace. He seemed more pensive than anything; staring into the flames and only taking part in the conversation when required to. His gaze drifted occasionally down to Sherlock, who was sated and lazy as a cat; with cake crumbs down the front of his shirt and slight traces of red wine at the corners of his mouth. 

Violet was curled up on the other end of the sofa, with Benjy heavily asleep on her lap. She had discarded the Times crossword after only a couple of minutes frustration of Sherlock guessing the answers to the clues before she had read them out, and ducked to light one of her black and gold cigarettes. She looked a little tired, John thought, but immensely content in her surroundings. When her gaze fell on him she wrinkled her nose affectionately, taking in how his fingers had somehow ended up carded through Sherlock’s hair. 

“I’m a _guest_ , I can’t be expected to fetch and carry firewood. It’s….unhothpit- _unhospitable_.” Sherlock sighed. John grinned quietly. He still found it endlessly amusing when Sherlock got a little tipsy; particularly when his vehemently-denied lisp made an appearance.

“I’m more of a guest than you are, you pest.” Violet countered. “You were coming here for years before I even arrived!”

“It’th _your_ house!” Sherlock protested, wagging an admonishing finger vaguely in her direction. 

“Have you seen these shoes? They’re fucking amazing! I’m not bloody going outside in them!”

“I’ll get it, if you tell me where it’s kept.” Patrick suggested, moving as if to get up. 

Violet pushed him back down again affectionately. “No, you and John wouldn’t have a clue where to find the right outhouse in the dark.” she poked Sherlock in the side with the toe of her cobalt blue suede shoe. “Alright you rotten git; how about this: you fetch some more firewood and I promise I’ll make you some honey cake tomorrow.”

Sherlock opened one eye and regarded her beadily. “What kind of ithing?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Any bloody kind of icing you want.”

“Will you knit John another jumper?” 

“What?” John asked curiously. “It’s a lovely jumper, Violet; but you don’t have to make me another-“

“He feels all nice in it.” Sherlock declared. “It’s much better than his other ones, and he looks all… nithe, I mean _nice_ in it.” he stopped, as if suddenly struck by a serious and sobering thought. “But it can't be _too_ nice. He almost looks too nice in the other one, and then people _look_ at him too much when he wears it.”

Violet grinned at him, her eyes dancing in amusement. “I promise. I will knit John a nice, but not overly attractive jumper. In any colour that he likes.”

“Violet, really, ignore him; you don’t have to-“

“Pantone 2945 C.” Sherlock said, at once. “Because his eyes are that colour. I’ve checked, you see. Sometimes they appear darker in the morningth. But _that_ is an _optical illusion!_ ” he added sternly, in case anyone was likely to have the nerve to question his analysis. 

John felt his ears turning red. Violet bit her lip, and nodded very seriously at Sherlock. “Pantone 2945 C. Got it.”

“Ugh! Oh, alright then.” Sherlock groaned, unfolding himself from the hearthrug in a flurry of knees and elbows. “That honey cake better be a _big_ one,” he warned Violet, who whacked him on the backside with her discarded newspaper as he passed her end of the sofa. 

“Sherlock, you want some help carrying the wood?” John asked, reluctantly. The room was so gorgeously warm and cosy he was reluctant to leave it; but it was perhaps not the best idea to let Sherlock go wandering along dark corridors and icy outbuildings when he was tiddly.

“Fine! It’th _fine_.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him and disappeared through the doorway abruptly. He seemed reasonably steady on his feet, so John decided to leave him to it. 

Violet (bless her) obviously decided not tease John about the Pantone scale or how _nice_ he felt in certain jumpers. 

“It’s never really seemed worth my while to get any staff up here.” she mused, wriggling into a more comfortable position on the sofa cushions. “But at times like these; I suppose it might be worth it.” she reached for the wine bottle and discovered that it was disappointingly empty. She scowled and sighed. “Definitely would be worth it.”

She picked up Benjy, who drooped from her hands like a large saggy fur cushion and deposited him carelessly on Patrick’s lap. Patrick looked faintly alarmed at the malevolent look that the cat aimed at him, and carefully didn’t move an inch. 

Violet stood up with a groan. “I’m going to trickle down to the cellar and get another bottle. Won’t be a tick.” she said, and ambled from the room.

John gave Patrick a slightly sheepish grin, willing the blush away from his face. Patrick met his gaze evenly, and took a sip of his wine. 

“He’s a dreadful lightweight.” John mused. “He’ll be cross when he remembers lisping in front of us tomorrow.”

“It’s rather charming, really.” Patrick said, after a moment. He stared into the depths of his glass. 

“I suppose so.” John agreed, although he didn’t much like other people thinking it. 

“It’s so odd…” Patrick said suddenly, and stopped. He swallowed hard, still gazing into the depths of his glass. 

“What is?” John murmured, after a moment.

“That they are so different.” Patrick said, eventually. “They have such similar minds and yet approach life so differently.”

At first, John thought that perhaps he was talking about Violet and Sherlock; but the tension in Patrick’s face suddenly made it very clear. Mycroft.

“I suppose they do, in some ways.” he said cautiously.

“I don’t mean to stare at him, John.” Patrick said quietly. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable; I can tell that it does.”

“Oh, er-“

“I assure you, I don’t harbour any intentions towards him.” Patrick said, a little apologetically. “It’s just that I see him living the way he does; without so many self-imposed restraints and rules and I suppose it makes me feel… a little wistful.”

John stared at him. “You mean-“

“I mean that his brother does not seem able to live in that way.” Patrick half-smiled. “I watch the way that Sherlock indulges himself, how he interacts with people, how he ignores so many norms if they don’t suit him. And most of all… most of all, I see how he is with you.”

“Oh.” John blinked. Patrick didn’t seem upset, but he suddenly seemed terribly tired. “Patrick, I’m sure that Mycroft-“

(Mycroft _what_ , exactly? You’re sure that he loves Patrick? You’re sure that he’ll make time for him and be mad enough to figure out the precise shade of his eyes?)

“Mycroft is a very busy man.” Patrick said, seemingly almost as a reflex. “And… I have come to the conclusion that I simply don’t fit into his life. However much I may want to. Mycroft believes in rules, you see. But I’m not sure if he entirely believes in other people.”

(What the hell does that mean?)

Patrick glanced up and caught sight of John’s expression, which was no doubt perplexed. He sighed a little. “I’m being unfair. He loves his brother. He respects you. But I don’t think he’s ever been inclined to make friends with many people; it doesn’t seem necessary to him. At first, things seemed wonderful – we talked for hours, we went to dinner and the theatre… but I realised before long that he would never talk about himself. He would never volunteer personal information, and he seemed to find it strange that I would want to know things about him. At times, he seemed almost suspicious that I asked him about himself.”

“I think that maybe he has to be a bit suspicious, in his line of work.” John offered, hesitantly. 

“And that is perhaps one of the main issues.” Patrick sighed. “The Work.”

“Ah.” John nodded, feeling on slightly more familiar territory.

“He made it clear to me at the onset that he only had limited free time,” Patrick said, as if wanting to make this clear. “I understood that he has great responsibilities, and demands on his time. But he would suddenly appear, now and again. As if by magic.” he added wryly. “When I was leaving work late, he might be waiting for me outside in his car. Or when I was taking a walk in an unfamiliar place, he would suddenly fall into step beside me.”

“Oh, yes. I’m familiar with that trick.” John said flatly. (Well at least someone finds it charming, rather than melodramatic and creepy.)

“But on the other hand, I would attempt to make plans and I would never know if he would appear. And he could never say why. With anyone else… with anyone at all, I would have walked away. And I did, once – I’m not a man who takes kindly to being ignored.” Patrick’s jaw clenched minutely. “I didn’t see him for weeks, until he showed up at my door at three o’clock in the morning. He was completely ashen, his hands were shaking and he looked… he looked _dishevelled._ He came in and sat on my bed and drank whiskey, and he wouldn’t say a word about what had happened. ”

“Christ.” John breathed, faintly appalled and completely fascinated. “What do you think it could have been?”

“I have no idea. He would never tell me. But I felt that if I was the only person that he wanted to see, when he was so shaken – surely I meant something to him?”

John thought about this for a minute. “I can’t imagine him going to anyone like that. Not even Sherlock. Not his mum and dad.”

“You see? And it’s a heady thing, to imagine that you mean so much to such a person. And he… he’s strange, and so intelligent and he can be so funny and charming….” Patrick broke off, looking wistful. John tried not to look incredulous. “It’s hard to put into words. But for me, when he’s in the room… everyone else seems to fade away. I felt like he could read all of my thoughts… and I didn’t mind it. In fact, I loved it. But I just can’t keep _waiting_ for him!” he said, with more anger than John had ever seen in his face. “I’m so tired of sitting alone in restaurants - I keep turning around and instead of Mycroft, I see Anthea carrying yet another vaguely worded apology.”

“Have you told Mycroft any of this?” John asked, after a long uncomfortable moment. “I mean, maybe he doesn’t understand how frustrating it is. I mean, Sherlock used to think nothing of disappearing for days at a time, without a word of explanation…”

“I’ve tried. I mean, heaven knows I am aware of the fact that he only has so much time to spare. I don’t expect him to have dinner with my family or to propose to me. But he just looked at me and told me that he expected I would meet someone else who could _entertain_ me better.”

Patrick swallowed the last of his wine and choked a little. “As if that’s what I wanted from him. Entertainment. Diversion. John, I see how you are with Sherlock and it makes me so envious. Because he has allowed himself to love you, and Violet, and who knows however many others. He has allowed you to get to know him, he has let you past the barriers. And I just don’t believe that Mycroft will ever allow me to do that. Now and again, I think that I’ve made a little headway; that he truly cares for me; that he trusts me. And then he vanishes for weeks, and greets me with a polite smile.”

“Caring is not an advantage.” John murmured, almost to himself. He winced. “Christ, Patrick. I’m sorry.”

Patrick made a brave attempt at a careless shrug, but his eyes were shining suspiciously. “Please ignore me. I’ve had rather too much wine and I’m feeling a little maudlin.”

At this point, the sound of Violet’s shoes suddenly became audible from down the corridor, mixed with the unmistakeable sounds of bickering and giggles. Sherlock appeared a moment later, laden down with an armful of dusty logs and a dusting of melting snowflakes in his hair. He dropped the firewood into the empty basket on the hearth with a clatter and collapsed on the hearthrug. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were glowing with cold and he shuffled closer to John and the flames moodily. 

“I am never fetching the firewood again!” Sherlock declared. He tucked himself against John’s legs and warmed his icy hands on his ankles, causing John to yelp a little. He glared at Violet, who had followed him in and was busily uncorking the next bottle. “John, tell her!”

“Do you know, I think I have had enough wine for one evening.” Patrick smiled, reaching out to squeeze Violet’s hand in farewell. “I think I had better go to bed.”

“Only people who haven’t overdone it say sensible things like that,” Violet pointed out, but leaned across and kissed his cheek before levering the snoring cat off his knees. “Fair enough, old thing. See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, gentlemen.” Patrick smiled and stood, nodding at John and Sherlock. “Sleep well.”

He made his way towards the door almost silently, and Violet watched him go with a faintly concerned look on her face. It closed with a click behind him, and she waited for several seconds before leaning towards John. 

“Blimey. What were you two talking about, then?” she whispered, curiously. 

John opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, reluctant to betray a confidence and unsure about where to start. Eventually he merely sighed and said: “Mycroft Holmes is a fucking idiot.”

“Preaching to the choir, laddie.” Violet muttered, sitting back with a grim smile.


	14. Chapter 14

As so often happened, the next morning John woke alone. It really didn’t bother him, or at least it didn’t bother him very much anymore. At first, some small part of him had vainly hoped that Sherlock would come around to long lie-ins, the slow intimacy of drifting in and out of sleep together, of shared warmth. But more often than not, if Sherlock was still in bed when John awoke, the detective was usually at least partially dressed and working busily on his laptop or phone. It was much more usual for John to wake alone, in cool sheets that bore little evidence of Sherlock’s presence during the night at all. 

After a quick wash and shave in the frigid 1930’s bathroom next door, John dressed and headed towards the kitchen in search of tea and company. The scent of frying bacon and fresh bread and the sound of muted conversation reached him as he rounded the corner of the ground floor corridor, causing him to pick up his pace. As he entered the kitchen he was greeted by the sight of Murdy Antonelli and Sherlock sitting side by side at the kitchen table. Both were eating large bacon sandwiches, and they worse such similarly morose expressions that John had to grin. 

Murdy was hunched like a slightly ruffled crow over her plate, a faint smear of ketchup at the corner of her large expressive mouth. She and Sherlock were staring thoughtfully out of the windows into the snow-covered gardens beyond. Violet was standing by the stove, pouring fresh tea into a slightly battered metal flask, watching the pair at the table with a bemused expression. She brightened as John appeared, and tilted her face so that he could kiss her scarred cheek.

“About ruddy time, you rotten slugabed!” she beamed. 

“Morning,” he murmured, and peered at the large china pot in her hand. “Do you think there might be another cupful left in there?”

“I’m about to make some more. This is for Mr. Brodie; he’ll be along in a moment.” Violet screwed the lid onto the flask tightly and placed it down on the table next to the door. 

She lowered her voice and nodded slightly towards the kitchen table. “I found her asleep on the sofa in the library this morning; I reckon she’d been there all night.”

John glanced over his shoulder at Murdy, as casually as he could manage. The girl looked tired and her dark shaggy hair stuck out on one side, but she seemed more pensive than upset. She looked up abruptly, clearly sensing the weight of his gaze. 

“Do you think you could give us a hand going through the shop ledgers, Murdy?” he asked quickly, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. “That is, if you’re not busy this morning?”

She looked straight through him for a moment or two, then nodded slowly. “Alright.” she said, a little hoarsely. “If you like.”

Sherlock turned in his seat at this, seeming a little surprised to see Murdy in the chair next to him. He frowned slightly at her, before twisting to face John. “There you are!”

“Yes, here I am.” John affirmed, drily. “I seem to be the only one in this house who seems to think that sleeping past half eight during the holidays isn’t a great crime.”

“Not the only one.” Violet pointed out, handing him a fragrantly steaming cup of tea in a hand-painted cup. “Still no sign of Patrick. I was beginning to wonder if I should go and help him get up.” she murmured, with a thoughtful little smile. 

John raised an eyebrow and she seemed to recall that there was a fourteen year old girl at the table. Violet blinked, and smoothly added: “That is, with some toast and coffee and a cheerful song. That sort of thing.”

“What a ghastly prospect.” Sherlock muttered into the depths of a cup of black coffee. 

“Nobody’s ever complained before…” Violet replied innocently. “Anyway, the ledgers are on the dresser there. Want a hangover sandwich, John?”

Unlike Sherlock, John wasn’t feeling particularly hungover, but he certainly wasn’t going to pass up an offer of a bacon sandwich. As Violet cut some more bread from a large loaf at one end of the table, he fetched the two large books and placed them in front of Sherlock and Murdy. 

“Okay. So, the tonic was delivered on the twentieth of December, right?” 

Murdy nodded, wiping her fingers absently on her jeans before reaching for one of the volumes. Sherlock gave her a faintly appalled look which she thankfully didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. I was just coming home from school when the van arrived, so it was between five and half five in the afternoon.” she flicked through the pages deftly, coming to a halt on a page with a long list of handwritten entries. “It wouldn’t have been put out on the shelf until after the shop closed that evening; there wasn’t time.”

“So we’re looking at the poisoning happening between the twenty-first and the twenty-fourth.”

“Well, no; of course not.” Murdy said, with a hint of impatience. “That’s only the time frame between delivery and when people were actually poisoned. It’ll be a much shorter window than that.”

“Quite.” Sherlock murmured, eyeing the gently steaming sandwich that Violet placed next to John with a certain amount of interest. John swiftly moved the plate out of reach and took a bite before Sherlock could get to it. The detective sighed grumpily and took another mouthful of coffee. “So we need to ascertain which of the victims bought the tonic water first. It’s unlikely that the poisoner made more than one trip to contaminate the bottles, it would be far too risky.”

“And you thought that it couldn’t have been contaminated much earlier than the twenty-third,” John suddenly recalled, thinking of their conversation on the way back from the hospital in Aberdeen. “Because of the way the carbon dioxide was escaping through the cork.”

“Potentially the twenty second, but it’s unlikely that it happened any earlier. I shouldn’t think that all of the victims would have drunk flat tonic water.”

At this point, the kitchen door opened and Mr. Brodie appeared in a rush of cold air. His face was ruddy from the chill, his shoulders and fading blonde hair flecked with snowflakes. After allowing Scunner, his small terrier, to trot over the threshold he closed the door hastily. He smiled at them all as he toed off his heavy boots. “Morning, everyone! How are we all this fine morning?”

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and nodded at him before turning back to the books. Violet greeted the estate manager rather more warmly and gestured to an empty chair near the fireplace. Scunner collapsed in front of the stove, the snowflakes on his wiry grey coat evaporating into small wisps of steam.

“I can’t stay long; got to go and have a look at the horses.” Mr. Brodie said, apologetically. “I just thought I’d check whether you needed anything from Aberdeen? I’ll be heading over there this afternoon.”

“Mmm…” Violet pondered for a moment, then shrugged. “Don’t think so. The cupboards are fairly well stocked at the mo, and I can always pop over to Antonelli’s if necessary.”  
Mr. Brodie looked a little dubious about this, but clearly decided not to comment in front of Murdy. “Och, well if you chance your mind give me a shout. By the way, whose is the big fancy jeep round the corner? It’ll be snowed in completely if it’s left there much longer.”

“That’s Patrick’s,” Violet explained, then cocked an ear. “Here he comes now, in fact. The old dear arrived quite late the night before last and we didn’t stir from the house all day yesterday. I’d quite forgotten he came with a car.” 

The soft footsteps coming down the corridor grew a little louder, and Patrick strolled into the kitchen. He was more casually dressed than he had been the day before, wearing a thick aran sweater over jeans and a deep blue shirt that echoed the inky colour of his eyes. He was carrying his horn-rimmed glasses and a book in one hand, and he paused when he caught sight of the two new faces in the kitchen. 

“Good morning, everyone.” he smiled politely. Murdy raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down speculatively. Mr. Brodie stood and offered his hand.

“Patrick, this is Murdy Antonelli and Mr. Brodie, the estate manager here.” Violet said, digging in the pocket of her dress for her silver cigarette case. 

John watched Patrick set down his book and glasses on the table, before reaching out to take Mr. Brodie’s slightly worn hand. 

“Welcome to Hilderbogie, Patrick!” Mr. Brodie smiled. “I take it you’re one of Violet’s painting pals, then?”

Patrick shot him an amused glance. “What gave me away?”

Mr. Brodie nodded at Patrick’s book, which turned out to be a biography of Samuel Peploe. “Bit of a clue, that. He did some work round here back in the 1930’s. He may well have popped in for tea with your granny, Sherlock.”

“I expect so.” Sherlock muttered disdainfully. “Grandmother liked collecting and entertaining artists, as long as they were reasonably respectable and famous. And providing of course that they didn’t marry her offspring.”

Violet kicked him lazily, and lit a cigarette with a flourish. “Look, I don’t think anyone could accuse me of being either respectable _or_ famous. And I only married one of her offspring; that’s hardly any at all!”

“I could show you some of the spots where he painted, if you like.” Mr. Brodie said kindly. “They’ll look a bit different in the snow, mind.”

Patrick looked a little taken aback, but nodded. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Brodie. I’d be delighted, if you had time. I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

“I am indeed a busy man!” Mr. Brodie replied, getting to his feet with a sigh. “I’d better be off. Do let me know if you need anything from town, Violet – it’s no trouble.”

“Thanks, Mr. B!” Violet smiled. “Your flask’s on the table there, don’t forget it”

Mr. Brodie picked up the flask and flashed her a grateful smile. “Bless your heart. Oh, I meant to ask – are you laddies coming to the Hogmanay ceilidh?”

“Course they are!” Violet said, before anyone could answer. “They wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Er-“ John began. 

“I am not entirely-“ Patrick started to murmur.

“We’ll be there!” Violet said firmly, and rather loudly. Mr. Brodie nodded as he stepped back into his boots, looking pleased. 

“Glad to hear it; it’ll be a good crowd. You and your sisters will be there too, I expect, Murdy?”

Murdy wriggled in her seat, looking irritated. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, but I expect I will be,” she said darkly. “Petty says I’ve got to.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mr. Brodie said cheerfully, opening the door. “Right; I’m off. Come on, Scunner! So long, folks!”

And with that, he disappeared out into the snow once more, the small terrier close to his heels. Patrick sneezed abruptly, and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.  
Murdy pushed her heavy fringe out of her eyes and regarded him beadily. Patrick stared out of the window, watching Mr. Brodie’s broad shouldered figure make its way across the white lawns towards the stable block.

Violet cleared her throat noisily and moved into the chair next to John, elbowing him accidentally as she pulled the ledger towards herself. “Right. Let’s get to it, then. Who was the first victim to buy the tonic water?”

“Miss Argyle.” Murdy replied promptly, her finger coming to rest under a short list of items and a total. “See, here? She came in during the morning on the twenty third. Dad would have served her.” 

“Turkish delight, tonic water, two lemons and a box of cream of tartar.” John read aloud, craning his neck to see. 

“So the poisoner must have contaminated the bottles at some point between opening time on the day before, and mid-morning on the twenty third.” Violet mused, turning back a page. “Right, well this should narrow things down considerably. Let’s make a list.”

She scrabbled for a pencil in the pocket of her kingfisher blue dress and motioned for Patrick to pass her an abandoned shopping list from the end of the table. 

“Eighteen customers were in the shop on the twenty second.” Sherlock said, after scanning the relevant page for less than a second. “Ogilvie; Swires; McIndoe; Brodie; Murchan; Mackie; Smith; Angus; Duncan; Jameson…”

“Hetty Ogilvie is six.” Murdy pointed out. “And Olive Murchan only has one arm; I reckon it’d be difficult for her to poison the bottles in a hurry.”

“Swires only bought a box of teacakes, which are shelved near the door. There wouldn’t have been enough time.”

“And he’s a muppet.” Murdy said bluntly. “He’s in my class at school. There’s no way he’s cunning enough to get away with it this long. He’s thick as mince.”

“That’s our Mr. Brodie.” Violet pointed out. “Buying tea leaves, marmalade, glue, meatballs and shoe polish. He went back in next day to buy the other things for me, including the tonic.”

“Is Duncan the Reverend Duncan or his wife?” John asked. 

Murdy nodded. “The Reverend. He often comes in on a Wednesday afternoon, on his way home. He does some counselling work in Aberdeen once a week, and then gets some groceries on his way home. Like Mr. Brodie though he came in and bought the tonic later; not til the twenty third.”

“Sherry, glacé cherries, nutmeg, bread, icing sugar, cream, manchego cheese and a jar of olives.” Sherlock read aloud, frowning slightly. “Sherry?”

“Probably picking up some stuff for Mrs. Duncan’s mince pies. She always makes them for after the church service on Christmas eve.” Murdy supplied, returning her attention to the list. “They’re _rotten_. Anyway, Mr. McIndoe could of done it; but I don’t see why he would. He wanted two kinds of icecream and some frozen peas; so he was probably on his own in the shop for a bit. He owns the dairy that supplies our milk,” she added.

“Gordon McIndoe wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Violet said firmly. “He’s a boring old git; he wouldn’t have the imagination.”

“So how many plausible suspects do we have?” Patrick asked, putting on his glasses and casting his eye down the list which was rapidly becoming shorter with each name being scored out.

After another ten minutes, the number was reduced to four names: 

Mr. Jameson, the publican. (Three pineapples, spinach and ricotta tortellini, a toothbrush and a frozen haddock.)

Mr. Mackie, the church groundskeeper. (A pounds of sherbet lemons, carbolic soap, a pint of goats milk and a tub of strawberry icecream.)

Mrs. Gordon, the dressmaker. (Celery, damson jam, bleach, shoelaces, four cartons of raspberry yoghurt and a redcurrant ice lolly).

“-and Mr. Brodie.” Sherlock added flatly. 

Violet visibly hesitated before writing down his name on the final list, and sighed. 

“I’m only adding his name because it’s within the realms of possibility. There’s no bloody way he did it, and we all know it. But I suppose he was on his own in the shop for a couple of minutes when Mr. Antonelli was fetching the meatballs.”

“And nothing else on the list of items purchased would have warranted stepping out of the shop?” Patrick asked, scanning the handwritten ledger. 

“No, and I’ve asked Dad and Petty that too.” Murdy replied. “They were the only ones serving in the shop those days. Pheemy was helping out the next morning, before Miss Argyle bought the tonic; but Petty was in there with her all the time. It would have been really tricky to manage the poisoning, with the two of them around.”

“Do you know if any of them were in the army?” John asked Murdy curiously. 

She frowned slightly, and shook her head. “Don’t think so. Mr. Mackie was in the merchant navy when he was younger, though. He insists on showing people his horrible mermaid tattoo after he’s had a few. Says that he got it when he lost his heart and his innocence in Pago-Pago.” 

“No good.” Sherlock said flatly, looking annoyed. “It would have to be within the last year.”

“No, then.” Murdy said firmly. “Definitely not.”

Sherlock sighed moodily, and poured himself some more coffee. John grimaced sympathetically; but the Sarin theory had been a long shot, after all.

“Isn’t poison supposed to be a traditionally female weapon of choice?” Patrick mused. “Just think of Lucrezia Borgia.”

Sherlock gave him a rather derisive look. “Hardly. Over sixty percent of homicidal poisonings are carried out by men.”

“Although goodness knows it can be _very_ tempting at times.” Violet remarked, kicking Sherlock in the shin again.

Just then, the old rotary telephone on the wall rang shrilly, causing John to jump and Sherlock to clutch his forehead in distress. Violet pushed back her chair. “I reckon that’ll be your dad wondering where you are, Murdy.” she said, crossing to answer it. 

Murdy sighed and got to her feet. “Probably.”

Violet handed her the receiver after a few words with the caller, and took her seat again. Murdy turned her back on the room and hunched over the phone, barely speaking beyond a few monosyllabic words. 

“Is she alright?” John murmured quietly, leaning towards Violet. 

She frowned slightly, taking in the sharp angles of the girl’s shoulders, and the mutinous tilt of her head. “I think there was probably some kind of row at home yesterday; but I don’t know what it would have been about. Emotions were probably running a bit high, what with Hector getting home from the hospital and them all worrying about the case and the business. And god knows, being fourteen is hardly a picnic at the best of times. She comes over here when she needs a bit of a break; I think the library helps calm her down.”

“It’s nice of you to let her use it.” John said absently. 

Violet scrunched her nose and shrugged. “I can remember needing that kind of refuge when I was her age. There’s a peace that comes with curling up among a large number of books. Even the smell helps, I think – one of the most calming ones I know of, anyway.”

John watched as the shadow of a memory trailed across her face, and was quickly banished. She caught sight of his expression and grinned cheerfully. “Anyhow. What’s the plan for the day? Interrogations and intrigue?”

“Sherry.” Sherlock murmured to himself. 

“What about him?” Violet asked curiously.

“No, not Uncle Sherry. The sherry that the Reverend Duncan bought,” he said impatiently. “If Mrs. Duncan is secretly an alcoholic, why is he buying sherry?”

“Well, I believe that one does put it in mince pies,” Patrick offered, polishing his glasses thoughtfully and looking to Violet for confirmation.

“Well I favour Cointreau, but you’re quite right. Some people do. It does seem rather odd that he would willingly buy it and bring it home for her. Surely he’d want to make it as difficult as possible for her to get her hands on any kind of booze?”

“Yes.” John said quietly, his thoughts drifting inevitably towards Harry. He immediately felt guilty about not seeing her at all over the Christmas season. He had meant to catch up with her on Christmas eve, but the case in Brighton had taken over. A small, secret part of him had been relieved; as they both grew older they seemed to have less and less to say to each other. Unless, of course, Harry was off the wagon again. Those times, conversation usually involved tears and accusations, decades-old grudges dug up and hurled around along with whatever was close to hand. “Yes, I’d hope he would. He seemed genuinely worried about her drinking when we spoke to him yesterday.”

“Whose drinking?” Murdy asked curiously, resuming her seat at the table. John swallowed hard and blinked. He hadn’t noticed her hanging up the phone or coming back to the table.

“Oh, er-“ he hedged, trying to think of a deflection. The Reverend, after all, had expressly asked them not to mention Mrs. Duncan’s alcoholism to anyone.

“Mine!” Violet said brightly. “Mr Brodie was telling me off yesterday. Said that I was going through far too much gin these days. He’s probably right too, the blighter.”

Murdy gave Violet a dubious look but evidently decided not to pursue the line of enquiry. She began to shrug on her coat, which was slung over the back of her chair. “OK then. I’ve got to go now. Can I help some more later though?” 

She asked this in a carefully casual tone, focussing on doing up her coat buttons and tugging the sleeves of the sweater she wore beneath to cover her narrow hands. Her shaggy hair fell across her face and she made no move to push it out of the way. 

John found himself nodding straightaway. “Of course, if you’ve got the time. You’ve been really helpful, Murdy.”

“I’ll be at home, if you want to get in touch.” she said gruffly, and made her way towards the kitchen door. “Thanks for everything, Miss Vernet.”

“Any time, Murdy. You know you’re always welcome.” Violet said with a smile. “We’ll see you later. Give my regards to your dad.”

Murdy nodded and headed outside, turning the dark fur collar of her coat up against the cold. Within seconds she disappeared, vanishing into the snow that had begun to fall steadily outside.

“She should wear a hat.” John murmured vaguely, and turned back to the group at the table. Sherlock snorted, and didn’t look up from the list of suspects. Violet gave John a slightly bemused look, but didn’t respond to his questioning glance.

***

“You’re concerned for the Antonelli girl.” Sherlock observed, as he and John slowly walked down the icy garden paths some time later. The grounds were utterly still, the fountains silent and solid with packed ice. The snow had subsided for a while, and the sky overhead had cleared to a sharp, bright blue. 

John shrugged slightly, and pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. “Not concerned, really. A bit sorry for her, maybe. I might be wrong, but I can’t imagine she’s got that many friends. This poisoning business is hardly going to improve the situation.”

“Why should it matter to you? You only met her a couple of days ago.” Sherlock pointed out, staring across the white lawns and into the trees along the riverbank. He still seemed pale and a little grumpy; no doubt as a result of the wine he had drunk the night before. 

“Why do you care how I feel about her?” John countered, a little defensively.

“I don’t, not in the slightest.” Sherlock said, a little too quickly. “You know my opinion on such matters. But you’re worried about Murdina Antonelli, and about Patrick bloody Singh – although you hardly know either of them. There’s nothing you can do to improve either of their situations. It doesn’t stop that particular line appearing on your forehead though.”

“What’s got you in this mood?” John asked curiously. “I can’t help feeling the way I do. And don’t give me this ‘I don’t do empathy’ bollocks, Sherlock. You and I both know the ‘high functioning sociopath’ stuff is a load of rubbish, you only do it when you’re too lazy or impatient to have any manners.” 

Sherlock sniffed mutinously, and turned away to peer into the depths of a nearby frozen pond. John stared at him, feeling rather cross and more than a little bewildered. It always frustrated him when Sherlock decided to adopt this sort of attitude towards others. 

Over the last year or two John fancied that Sherlock had toned it down a bit; he certainly was nowhere near as quick to dissect strangers with acid deductions as he had been back before his long absence. These days, his (admittedly well hidden) kindness seeped out rather more often, his edges softened a little since his return. He often pretended that the only reason he was occasionally nice to people was solely to keep John happy. Because John was the kind of sap who cared about such things, and _John being happy_ meant that Sherlock had an easier life, that was all. Nothing more.

But that didn’t explain everything away; like how Mrs. Hudson’s aged boiler got mysteriously replaced while she was on holiday in Majorca. Or how a few months previously, Molly Hooper had managed to find a much nicer flat a lot closer to Barts, at an almost ludicrously low rent. John had noticed Mr. Chatterjee quietly handing out cups of tea and sandwiches to members of the homeless network on several occasions, which somehow coincided with Sherlock beginning to slide unmarked envelopes over the counter of Speedy’s every month. John knew better than to call attention to any of these things; but he certainly noticed them. 

“She’s clever. She can help with the case – I mean, she has done already, what with the list of suspects. It would have taken much longer to narrow it down without her. So what if I’m a bit sorry for her too? It’s hardly a crime.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, his shoulders stiff and his face immobile. John wasn’t entirely sure if he’d even heard his slightly defensive words.

(Sod it. He’s hungover and in a Mood. Being here probably isn’t helping, not with so many old memories waiting round every corner. Probably best leave this one alone, for now.) 

“So will we go and talk to some of these people? Jameson, Mrs. Gordon and whoever the other one is again?”

“Mackie, the groundskeeper.” Sherlock murmured, finally breaking his mutinous silence. 

“And Mr. Brodie, I suppose. Bloody awkward with him, though. I know he technically could have done it; but I can’t imagine that he would have wanted to. Especially with Vi – he’s clearly devoted to her, never mind the fact that his job would be at risk if she died.”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, before abruptly making a wide circle around another small pond and heading back up the treacherously icy path towards the house. Smoke was drifting idly from several chimneys, spiralling through the clear air. Already, more snow clouds were gathering over the distant hills and the ever-present crows were huddling gloomily in the branches of skeletal trees. John stared at his dark silhouette for a moment, before sighing and following him slowly down the path.

***

They called on Mr. Jameson first, the owner of the pub that faced Antonelli’s shop across the village square. The man’s name was painted on a wooden sign above the low stone doorway, which squeaked in the breeze on rusty metal hinges. The pub itself was closed, as it was only early afternoon; but the top half of the hefty oak door opened easily enough when Sherlock pushed the tarnished brass latch down with his thumb. 

The long dark room inside was murky, and redolent of woodsmoke and spilt beer. Several stools stood, up-ended on rickety tables and along the blackened wooden bar. A rheumy-eyed collie next to an unlit fireplace barked half-heartedly at the disturbance of the opened door, but didn’t bother getting to its feet. Tarnished horse brasses and complicated bits of old farming machinery were hung all over the rough stone walls, interspersed with rather greasy old brewery mirrors. The only light came from an open door behind the bar and a gap in the blinds of one of the small deep windows.

“Who’s that?” a mans voice called, from somewhere behind the bar. John peered over the bottom half of the door, but couldn’t catch sight of anyone in the gloom. 

“Mr. Jameson? My name is Sherlock Holmes; may we speak with you?” 

_“Holmes,_ is it?” the voice exclaimed, and a rather grizzled bearded man popped up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a row of brass taps. He was wiping his hands on a rather grubby apron, evidently having been changing the kegs of beer behind the bar. “Haven’t had a Holmes in my pub for many a year, indeed!”

He quickly made his way to the door, stepping over the sleepy collie and unlocking the bottom half of the door; swinging it wide open to admit them. He rested his hands on his hips, gazing up into Sherlock’s face with unabashed curiosity before seeming to remember his manners and shaking hands with both of them. 

“You’re a lot like your uncle Sherry, aren’t you?” he remarked, leading them over to a table and swinging down a couple of stools for them to sit on. Sherlock's expression flickered slightly at this, but he didn’t respond. It struck John that he had never even seen a photograph of Violet’s husband and he immediately began to wonder if there were any old photo albums back at Hilderbogie House. 

“-yes, I saw quite a lot of your uncle, in the old days. Must be over twenty years ago now…” Mr Jameson sighed, and winced slightly. “He was a nice fellow. A proper gentleman. Bloody good at bowling too, when the mood took him.”

“And an excellent customer here, I imagine.” Sherlock said, with a trace of acid in his voice.

Mr Jameson flinched very slightly and flushed. “A regular, certainly. So, er… what was it you lads wanted to talk to me about anyway?”

“We’re trying to help sort out what happened over at the Antonelli’s shop before Christmas.” John said hastily, trying to break the suddenly heavy atmosphere. “We’re consulting detectives, you see; and Violet Vernet told us about the incident. She asked us if we’d try and get to the bottom of things.”

“Oh, I see.” Mr Jameson said slowly, with a faint frown. “I didn’t buy any of the tonic, though. I get plenty of my own, you understand. Not the fancy stuff Hector stocks; it’s too expensive for the pub. I get mine from my usual wholesaler in Aberdeen.”

“You did however visit the shop in the days before Christmas, though.” Sherlock pointed out. 

“I did indeed. They’re only a few doors away, and they’ve always been good neighbours. It was always a nice shop, too. It’s a shame, really.”

“You’re referring to the business in the past tense.” Sherlock remarked.

Mr. Jameson half shrugged, looking a little awkward. “In a village like this, reputation means a lot. It’s very sad but I can’t imagine that the business will recover in a hurry; not if customers have to worry about buying poisoned food.”

“Drink, in this instance.” Sherlock murmured, glancing at the shelves and racks of bottles behind the ill-lit bar. “Mr. Antonelli stocks quite a wide range of wines and spirits, doesn’t he? Not just the mixers like the tonic water.”

“Yes.” Mr. Jameson said, stonily. “Not that I ever bought booze from him.”

“I suppose not. I imagine quite a lot of your revenue comes from off-license sales, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked, rather too innocently John thought.

“Well, there’s not many places to buy alcohol round here.” Mr. Jameson replied, his eyes narrowed. His fingers had found a discarded cardboard beer-mat, and he was restlessly shredding it in his lap. Out of the corner of his eye, John watched his blunt fingers working absently under the table, small shreds of paper floating to the grubby stone floor. 

“There’s McGillivray’s bar across the green, but they only have a licence to serve on the premises.”

(Nervous. I mean, obviously; who wouldn’t be when Sherlock’s in this kind of mood. But that’s one of those classic nervous habits, isn’t it? Interesting.)

John glanced at Sherlock, taking in his narrowed eyes and shrewd expression as he regarded the unfortunate publican. Mr. Jameson had begun to sweat slightly. 

“It will be convenient for you to have a monopoly on off-license sales now, won’t it?”

Mr. Jameson stared at him speechlessly for a long moment. “That’s neither here nor there. Consulting detective, was it? Doesnae sound all that official to me, now that I think about it. Do the police know you’re here, laddie?”

John winced slightly. He had been hoping that that particular question wasn’t going to come up quite so soon. “We’re just trying to help get to the bottom of what happened, Mr. Jameson. We’re going to be talking to several people who visited the shop before Christmas.”

Mr. Jameson glanced at him, deeply unimpressed. “Well, I think I’ve spoken to the pair of you long enough. If there are any questions to be answered, the proper detectives from Aberdeen will be the ones asking them; not some snotty twat in a posh coat.” he glared at Sherlock. “Naw, Mr. Holmes. You’re not so like your uncle. He was a nice fellow with some manners about him. He’d not be impressed with the way you’ve been speaking to me, and that’s the truth!”

He kicked back his stool with a harsh squeak and got to his feet, the shredded beermat falling to the floor next to his worn boots. “I think it’s time for the pair of you to leave. And I’ll thank you to patronise McGillivray’s rather than my pub, if you want to go out for a drink!”

John sighed, and got to his feet. Getting forcibly ejected from interviews with suspects was nothings new; but this was pretty fast even by their standards. Sherlock continued to stare steadily at Mr. Jameson, who raised a faintly trembling hand and pointed towards the door.

“Interesting décor in here, Mr. Jameson.” Sherlock said blithely, adjusting the scarf around his neck. “Classic provincial pub, the usual china figurines and brewery tat. Predictable farm accoutrements… those binoculars on the window-sill are a little incongruous though; aren’t they?”

Jameson’ mouth pinched into an even angrier line. “Out. Now. And the pair of you can bloody stay out.”

“Gladly.” Sherlock retorted, and swept out the door with John trailing behind him in embarrassment. The pub door slammed shut behind them, swiftly followed by the sound of bolts sliding home violently.

“You can’t really think that he poisoned the tonic water, just to get the monopoly on alcohol sales in the village?” John asked, once they were several yards across the village square. It was nearly lunchtime, and several people were making their way along the slushy pavements. More than one local gave the pair of strangers a curious glance as they came to a halt at the icicle-laden water pump next to the central war memorial.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leant against the stone obelisk, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets and staring in exasperation at the snow clouds gathering overhead. “Of course not. It’s just a happy accident for Mr. Jameson. The man is, however, involved in another kind of criminal conduct. Well, two others – but I don’t remotely care about the fact that he’s been watering down the spirits he serves.”

John thought hard about their brief interview with the publican. He assumed that Sherlock must have spotted some anomaly in the colours of the bottle contents behind the bar; but apart from that he couldn’t for the life of him think of any other kind of obvious criminal evidence.

“Go on, then. Tell me.”

“The binoculars, John.” Sherlock pointed out, with exaggerated patience. “Rather an odd item to keep on a pub windowsill. Large, rather expensive pair. It would be foolish in the extreme to keep such an expensive item sitting out in the public area during opening hours; even in this supposedly honest little village things can go missing. No, the binoculars are on that particular windowsill only during the hours when the place is closed.”

He looked meaningfully at John. “That particular windowsill is underneath the only set of blinds with a tear in them. Admittedly, the overall décor in the pub is shabby; but the ripped fabric of that particular blind stands out. The upholstery on the seats is worn, but not in disrepair. The furniture is old, but it has been properly mended when necessary. Why would Mr. Jameson leave a hole in the window blind?”

“Might be recent. He mightn’t have had time to replace it yet.” John said, more out of habit and the sake of argument rather than any hope of being correct. Besides, Sherlock seemed to have brightened up slightly at the idea of some new nefarious conduct to uncover. 

(It really shouldn’t make you feel relieved when he gives you that patronising look.)

“Far too much dust resting in the fabric creases. Furthermore, the rip was clearly made with a sharp blade; not some careless accident. So: large pair of binoculars alongside deliberate hole in the window blinds. What do you conclude?”

“He’s not into a spot of bird-watching, then.” John murmured, gazing back at the pub window and the dark gap of the tear. “Not overlooking the village square.” he raised an eyebrow. “Peeping Tom, then?”

“Well done, John. You got there in the end.” Sherlock sighed extravagantly. “Now take a look at the angle. What could he possibly be looking at, from that corner of the square?”

John craned his neck, trying to imagine what would be visible from the north corner. The tear was reasonably small and he didn’t think that it would allow Jameson to get a good view in many directions. On one side a blank wall covered in snow-dusted ivy stretched for several feet. A few shuttered businesses and houses stretched on the other side; but he didn’t think that the angle would have allowed anyone to see beyond the windowsills. The war memorial that Sherlock was leaning against obscured much of the south side of the square. Almost all of it, in fact, except the extreme opposite corner. The corner that Antonelli’s grocery took up.

“He’s been spying on the grocery?” he wondered aloud. “Oh, no. Hang on. Oh! Oh, ugh.”

“Quite.”

“They live above the shop.” John glared back at the pub. “That old _perv_ spies on the Antonelli girls?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock muttered. “It’s the only truly clear line of vision from that spot. I doubt it has ever occurred to the Antonelli’s that someone with binoculars or a telescope could get a good look through the upstairs bedroom windows from that particular point across the square. It’s too far away for the naked eye to worry about. The slope of the ground means that the surrounding houses don’t overlook the upstairs windows. And besides, the majority of the buildings nearby are single storey. No one else can see inside. No one, except Mr. Jameson.”

“Bastard.” John muttered, still glowering at the pub window. He turned to face Antonelli’s once more, and almost at once saw Petty open one of the upstairs windows. She shook a blanket vigorously through the casement, the movement causing her dark hair to fall haphazardly into her pretty face. Once she had finished, she straightened up and immediately caught sight of them. She leant out a little further and waved at them to approach the shop.

“Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!” she called, once they had drawn nearer. “Do you need to come and see the shop again? The door below is open if you want to come in.”

John wasn’t sure whether to decline or if they should take the opportunity to recommend that she put up some heavier curtains as soon as possible. Sherlock however nodded straight away, and made for the shop door. “Please. Is your father at home?”

“Yeah, he should be down there with Pheemy at the moment.” Petty confirmed and ducked back inside, dragging the blanket over the casement as she went.

Sure enough, Hector Antonelli was sitting on a high stool behind the long wooden shop counter. He looked drawn and tired, but he smiled when he saw them enter the room. 

“Gentlemen! How can I help you?”

“Don’t worry, Daddy; I’ll look after them!” Pheemy almost shouted, from where she was standing atop a sliding ladder on the other side of the shop. “You know you’re supposed to be taking things easy at the moment!” She scrambled down the steps, almost tripping over the hem of her trailing floral dress in her haste. Hector gave them a slightly embarrassed smile, and John took in the blanket draped around his shoulders and more than one cup of tea sitting next to him on the counter. 

“Don’t fuss, pet. I don’t think Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson will need me to rush about the place just yet.”

“No, we won’t.” John assured Pheemy hastily. She hovered, looking less than convinced as she glanced between Sherlock and John. “Promise,” he added earnestly. 

“Why don’t you go and see what the twins are up to, Pheem? It’s been suspiciously quiet for at least a half hour and you know that usually means there’s trouble brewing.” Mr. Antonelli suggested. 

Very reluctantly, Pheemy nodded and made her way to the bead curtain that separated the shop from the rest of the building. Mr. Antonelli watched her go with a frown, looking faintly troubled. 

“Sorry about that, lads. She’s still convinced I’m about to keel over every five minutes and watches me like a hawk most of the time. I’ve been coddled half to death since I got back yesterday.”

“It’s good to see that you’re up and about again,” John said, coming to lean against the counter. “I’ll bet you’re glad to be home.”

“Yes indeed.” Hector replied, with a small smile. “There’s nothing like your own bed. And the food in that hospital was frankly atrocious, although I’m sure they tried their best.”

“Mr. Antonelli, do you remember anything untoward about Mrs. Gordon’s visit to your shop before Christmas?” Sherlock asked, clearly deciding that enough time had been wasted on pleasantries. 

“Mrs. Gordon?” Mr. Antonelli echoed, looking a little surprised. “Er… not particularly, that I can recall. She comes in a few times a week usually. Regular customer. Nice woman, if a wee bit overly chatty when you’re trying to get things done. If you’ll let me have my ledger back I’ll be able to tell you what she was buying, if that makes a difference?”

“Celery, damson jam, bleach, shoelaces, four cartons of raspberry yoghurt and a redcurrant ice lolly.” Sherlock recited carelessly. “The yoghurt and the ice lolly would have meant that you would have had to step out of the shop while you were serving her, correct?”

“Well, yes…” Mr Antonelli agreed, after a moment. He half-shrugged, a little awkwardly. “But I really don’t think that she’ll have been the one who poisoned the tonic.”

“Any reason in particular?” John queried. 

Hector looked even more awkward, and finally opened his mouth to reply. He was saved the effort of responding though by the sudden clatter of the beaded curtain and the appearance of Rab. She leant casually against the door frame, where she hastily finished eating the slice of toast she was holding in her left hand. 

“Is coz she…” she chewed rapidly and swallowed with a visible effort. “Coz she-“

“-fancies Dad something _rotten_ ,” said Pruny, who rapidly followed her sister into the shop. She grinned at her father, who blushed hotly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Rab! Pruny! Come on, I’m supposed to be having a serious chat with Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson here. Less of your nonsense.”

“It’s true!” Rab protested at once. “Everyone knows it. I bet she embroiders your name surrounded by wee hearts all over her petticoats!”

“She’s the one that sent you that awful soppy valentines card this year, it was _obvious!”_ Pruny chimed in. “That one with all the bluebirds and bunnies on it! IT bloody reeked of her perfume. She grinned nastily and turned to Sherlock. “It had _SWALK_ written on the envelope in fuchsia lipstick, an’ all. There’s nobody else in this village that wears fuchsia lipstick.”

“Yeah, they’ve got more sense.” Rab agreed. “It makes her look rabid. Well, even more rabid than she would do without it.”

“That’s more than enough!” Mr. Antonelli said, as sternly as he could despite his persistent blush. “There’s no need to be rude about Mrs. Gordon; she’s a nice lady. Go on and read your books and leave us grown-ups to talk now.”

Rab and Pruny adopted identical expressions of outrage.

“We’ve finished our books! And Murdy won’t let us have any of the ones Reverend Duncan lent her until she’s finished. And I really wanted to read the one about that prince bloke, but she gave it back to him before I could! Toni won’t drive us to the library in Muckle Gleikit either, the rotten cow!”

“Toni’s busy with the wholesalers at the moment, you wee baggages. Go and find something else to do, then.”

With a very bad grace the twins slunk away, the beaded curtain noisily falling into place behind them. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mr. Antonelli, who sighed and took off his glasses to polish them on the corner of the blanket around his shoulders.

“Och, fair enough. It’s true. Mrs. Gordon has a bit of a soft spot for me. She’s a lovely lady and we get on well.” His ears reddened a bit more and lowered his voice as he continued. “We, er… we’ve kept each other company now and again although the girls don’t know anything about it. She’s not keen on getting married again, but we’re very fond of each other. She’s really the last person I’d suspect of messing with the stock or trying to murder anyone.”

John found it rather unlikely that this arrangement could possibly have remained unnoticed by the gimlet eyes of the Antonelli girls; but didn’t comment. 

Sherlock nodded and hummed thoughtfully. “And Mr. Mackie?”

“Larry Mackie?” Mr. Antonelli echoed dubiously. “Well; I wouldn’t say he’s the most even-tempered of souls but he’s never had a problem with me. We’ve been on the Hilderbogie bowling team together for nearly fifteen years now. He and Miss Argyle though… they’ve been at each other’s throats ever since she saw him doing the Dashing White Sergeant in the churchyard the Hogmanay before last. Accused him of blasphemy, among other things.” The grocer shrugged and grinned a little. “Knowing Mr Mackie, it was probably the safest place for it, really.”

John blinked rapidly. “Um. Well. I suppose she is a bit religious; some people might find it upsetting to see something like that going on outside a church.”

“Well, there was barely any room left in the church hall, and he hadn’t been able to find a partner until then.” Mr. Antonelli said mildly. 

“Must have been a bit cold, in December.” John said carefully, after a moment or two. 

“Well, you soon get warmed up. Larry Mackie puts a lot of effort into it.”

John blinked at him a bit more. “And this sergeant… he’s still in Hilderbogie, is he?”

Mr. Antonelli frowned at him in confusion. “What?”

“The er, the… dashing chap you mentioned, just a minute ago…” John blushed slightly. “I asked Murdy earlier and she didn’t seem to think that there was anyone military round here-“

Sherlock had been listening to this exchange with interest, a faint curve to the corner of his mouth as he watched John become increasingly embarrassed. He cleared his throat quietly and leant in. 

“John, I suspect that you are labouring under a misapprehension. The Dashing White Sergeant is not, in fact, a person. It’s the name of a Scottish folk dance.”

“Oh!” Mr. Antonelli cried, looking pinker than ever. “Sorry, Doctor Watson; I just assumed…” he swallowed and smiled sheepishly. “Mr. Mackie loves dancing but the numbers were uneven for that set and the hall was crowded. So he popped next door into the churchyard and danced by himself, because he couldn’t bear to miss it. Um. He was on his own. No soldiers with him at all. Just Miss Argyle, who seemed to think that it was a bit disrespectful for some reason.”

John glared at Sherlock, who looked back at him with an expression of determined innocence. 

(Well at least you’ve perked up enough to make a fool out of me in front of witnesses yet again. You utter git!) 

“Do you know of any other grudges he might have against the other victims?” Sherlock queried airily.

Mr. Antonelli looked thoughtful. “Dalziell broke up a scrap over at Jamesons in February, and I think he might have been involved. I don’t think it was anything serious though. And Mrs. Duncan has always been very nice to him; I’ve seen her bringing him tea and sandwiches several times when he’s been working in the church grounds. Well really, nobody in the world could have a grudge against Mrs. Duncan as far as I can tell. She’s a very kind lady.” he sighed and scratched his head thoughtfully. “But surely you can’t think that any of us were deliberately targeted? I mean, besides my business. Surely it’s just a random selection of unlucky folk who happened to buy the tonic water?”

“This is a small village, with a small number of people who will move in predictable patterns of behaviour.” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, peering out into the square outside. “I’ve looked through the ledgers and all of the victims bought the tonic water on a regular basis for at least several months before the poisoning. It’s far from random, Mr. Antonelli. None of the victims were buying the tonic water on a whim or an impulse. Even you consumed an average of one bottle per month; typically you took one from shop stock for personal consumption every four point two weeks.”

Mr. Antonelli grimaced sadly, and sighed. He leant his chin on his hand and let his gaze wander out into the snowy village square outside. “I hate to think that anyone would have done this deliberately.”

“People do tend to surprise one now and then. It’s usually the only thing that makes them even slightly bearable.” Sherlock countered, buttoning up his coat and adjusting his scarf before turning for the door. “I think we’ll go and ask Mr. Mackie a few questions next. Good afternoon, Mr. Antonelli.”

“So long, lads. Good luck.” 

“Oh, and one more thing-“ Sherlock paused on the threshold, one foot in the snow outside, He seemed to remember something. “I’d consider buying some slightly heavier curtains if I were you….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really bad that I haven’t been replying to all your lovely comments and messages, but life has really gotten in the way of late! I read and treasure every single comment though - they mean an awful lot to me and thank you all so much for taking the time to leave them. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update, and I promise it won’t be anywhere near so long until the next one!
> 
> Snorks x


	15. Chapter 15

After leaving a gaping and increasingly furious Mr. Antonelli at the shop on the village square, Sherlock and John made their way towards the churchyard where Mr. Mackie worked and lived alongside. Sherlock seemed to have cheered up slightly, and John suspected that it had something to do with the lifting of the mornings’ hangover.

Sherlock, for all that he outweighed John, had a much lower tolerance for alcohol and rarely drank to excess. There was something about Violet’s company, however, that seemed to lead to indulgence in all forms, whether it was food, wine or general bonhomie. Although he would never say as much to Mycroft, on some level John doubted that long-term exposure to her would be all that good for Sherlock’s health. But in small doses he did enjoy watching Sherlock unwinding to such an unprecedented degree – the memory of the detective sprawled on the hearth rug, covered in cake crumbs and lisping tipsily the night before brought a small wry smile to the corner of John’s mouth.

Mr. Mackie was easily found, as he was busily sweeping the path that led to the stone arch of the austere church. Large banks of snow had been pushed up on either side of the granite slabs, and it looked as if several of the nearby gravestones were in danger of disappearing entirely under the swept snow. Mackie was a tall, gaunt man dressed in several heavy layers of aged tweed and leather to keep out the sharp cold. His face was deeply lined and permanently ruddy from decades of outdoor work and an impressive set of jug-ears gave him the look of a cheerful old ape. He paused in his sweeping and watched them walk through the kissing-gate that led into the yard, tipping his flat cap further back on his head.

“You’ll be the ones up from London, then?” he asked in greeting, an interested smile on his wizened face. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock shook the outstretched hand gestured to John. “My colleague, Doctor Watson.”

“Well, come and have some tea then. No point in freezing our arses off out here, eh?” Mr. Mackie said jovially, leaning his broom against a tall grave marker and leading the way over to a small outbuilding attached to the church. Inside was a ramshackle collection of gardening equipment and tools, as well as a pot-bellied stove and a couple of rickety stools. John gratefully took a seat on an old wooden tea-chest and watched as Mr. Mackie threw a couple of shovelfuls of coal through the door of the stove and left it ajar to let the room warm more quickly. Sherlock took a seat next to him on a low stool, leaning his elbows on his knees as he leant towards the groundskeeper with interest.

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Mackie,” he observed, taking off his gloves and extending his hands towards the fireplace. 

Mackie grinned toothily and nodded, looking rather delighted. “Ah, you’re doing the deductions! I’ve heard about you, Mr. Holmes. I hear you can tell all about a fellow by the length of his breeks and the brand of his soap, eh?”

“I can tell that you’re not a native of Hilderbogie, certainly.” Sherlock conceded. “Although you have been here long enough for your accent to be almost indistinguishable from the locals. Your broad vowels, though… they tend to indicate that your origins are rather further away. Canada. Newfoundland, to be precise. You left there many years ago for a life at sea. Admittedly, I was told about your history in the merchant navy by a member of the Antonelli family. However, the unmistakable scars on your hands indicate an initial foray into trawler and line fishery before that.”

Mr. Mackie beamed at him, holding out his large gnarled hands which were indeed rather scarred. “Not bad, laddie. The worst of these are from hooks, fair enough.”

Sherlock wordlessly held out his own left hand and showed a faint crescent scar along the side of his thumb that John had always assumed was from a chemical burn or an old knife wound. “It’s a reasonably distinctive pattern. The barbs inevitably leave their mark as they exit the wound and one rarely has the time or opportunity to have stitches immediately.”

Mackie studied Sherlock’s hands keenly. “Very true, Mr. Holmes. I don’t think that you were a trawlerman for very long, though. Not enough scars on those paws, I reckon.”

“Just long enough to expose a smuggling ring and to work my way across the Caspian sea.” Sherlock said carelessly. “Not an occupation I’d care to return to.” 

“Nor me.” said Mackie understandingly. “And I still can’t face bloody halibut. Got into the merchant navy for a bit of adventure, and not least the chance of some better grub. Wasn’t a bad life, really.”

“So what brought you to Hilderbogie?” John asked curiously.

“Oh, a well-turned ankle.” sighed Mr. Mackie nostalgically. “Sadly it was attached to a dark eyed lady who took off with a sharply dressed bookie from Dundee, less than a year after I left the sea for her. We fought like hammer and bloody tongs but it was more than worth it in the evenings, if you get my meaning,” he winked theatrically at them both and gave them a knowing grin.

“Oh, er…” John grinned back, a little embarrassed. “Sorry to hear it.”

“Och, it was never meant to last.” Mr. Mackie said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Foot loose and fancy-free, that’s what suits me. I always meant to go back on the ships; but I ended up doing odd jobs here and there. Eventually I got the job as groundskeeper here, and it’s not a bad place at all to work. Comes with a nice wee cottage, good neighbours by and large… I could have ended up in much worse places, I suppose.” 

“I hear that you and the local schoolteacher don’t see eye to eye, though.” Sherlock ventured casually. 

Mackie snorted, and took out a tin of rolling tobacco from one of his sagging pockets. “There’s not many that see eye to eye with Kathy Argyle round here!” he said candidly, deftly rolling a thin cigarette. “Except maybe that poor sod Dalziell. God knows why he puts up with the likes of her; but maybe he’ll see sense before it’s too late. You mark my words: whoever poisoned that tonic water had Miss Argyle in mind. She’s bloody public enemy number one round here. The woman’s a menace! Shouldn’t be allowed round the kiddies, if you ask me. Might warp their wee minds.”

“Oh, I think they’re probably doing alright, if the younger Antonelli girls are any indication.” John observed. 

Mackie chortled quietly and bent to lit his roll-up from the stove. “True enough. It does my heart good every time I see wee Rab or Pruny drive Miss Argyle to screeching point.”

“So you believe that the poisoner had specific people in mind when they contaminated the tonic water?” Sherlock asked, inhaling just a little more deeply than he had been previously. John gave him a pointed look, causing the detective to roll his eyes theatrically and to stop leaning into Mackie’s billowing plumes of noxious smoke.  
Mackie shrugged. “I dunno about all of them. But if anyone was going to be done in in this town, it’d be her. It’s true that I don’t get on with her, but neither does almost anyone else. There’s hardly a soul in Hilderbogie who she hasn’t told off or rubbed up the wrong way at some stage. I will tell you that I didn’t do it, though.” he added candidly. “To be honest, I think I’d probably go for something nastier if I set my mind to it.” He paused suddenly, and turned towards the door. “Hang on, who’s that?”

“Mr. Mackie-?” came a familiar, sonorous voice from the churchyard and a second or two later the Reverend Duncan appeared around the door looking agitated. 

“Reverend?” Mackie frowned, getting to his feet. “Everything ok? Just been having a chat with these-“

“Yes, never mind that now!” Duncan snapped. Mackie stared at him, evidently a little shocked at this lapse in manners. The minister shook his head fitfully and grimaced. “Sorry, Larry. I’m in a bit of a state. Have you seen Alice? I can’t find her anywhere!”

“But isn’t she still in hospital?” Mr. Mackie asked, looking concerned. 

Reverend Duncan shook his head, his face tense and anxious. “She discharged herself this morning and took a taxi back without telling me. When she arrived, she looked fit to drop but insisted that she was better; that she couldn’t neglect her parish duties any longer. I thought I’d convinced her to go and have a lie-down upstairs but when I went to bring her a cup of tea her coat was gone and she wasn’t there!” he wiped his palm across his well-groomed silver beard and sighed. “She’s really in no fit state to be out and about, not in weather like this. She’s not well enough yet to even be home, not by half.”

“We’ll come and help you find her.” John said firmly, getting to his feet and putting on his gloves. Sherlock mirrored his actions, tightening his scarf around his neck. “She can’t have gotten too far, surely.”

“She’s probably just dropped in on some of the older parishioners,” Mr Mackie said, pitching the dog end of his cigarette into the stove and closing the iron door with a clang. He squared his shoulders, suddenly looking much more business-like. “Come along, lads. Reverend, you go round by Ochiltree Lane and Methill Wynd. Check Miss Argyle’s place, she might have wanted to see the old besom. I’ll go through the square and along the Aberdeen road, in case she’s decided to get a bus anywhere.” He turned to John and Sherlock. 

“You two go along towards the village green and by the bowling club; she might have decided to call in at the WI meeting there this afternoon.”

“Bless you, Larry.” The Reverend said gratefully, clapping Mackie on the shoulder and turning for the door. “I’m probably overreacting but she really shouldn’t be out on her own like this just yet.”

“Come along, John.” Sherlock said briskly, following Mackie out into the snowy churchyard. The sky was already growing steadily darker and the temperature had dropped noticeably even in the short time that they had been sitting in the cosy church outbuilding. Mackie nodded at them in farewell before tramping off towards the ill-lit village square. 

The minister was already a silhouette heading down the lane that led towards the schoolhouse and Miss Argyle’s cottage.

“Do you think that she’s been drinking?” John murmured, as they made their way to the eastern side of the village and the wide expanse of the bowling green.

Sherlock hummed and shrugged; non-committal. “The Reverend certainly seems anxious enough to suggest it. She’s taken her coat and she’s in familiar surroundings. Even if she were to collapse she would be surrounded by familiar people and neighbours. People who would undoubtedly notice almost at once and take care of her. It’s possible he’s more concerned that people will see her in an intoxicated state rather than merely weakened by the atropine poisoning.”

“It’s getting dark, though.” John pointed out. “If she collapses in one of these narrow lanes, she might not be seen by anyone. She looked pretty weak in the hospital. Why on earth would she have discharged herself like that?”

Sherlock scanned the dimming street and peered through a few lit windows. “Well, I’m quite sure she was worried about the Reverend. He’s clearly a man used to being waited on, and she’s used to looking after him as well as several members of the community. I imagine she felt that she was neglecting her duties by staying in hospital; particularly as the other victims had been sent home yesterday.”

The windows of the bowling club that neighboured the village green were brightly lit, and inside a handful of women were busily unfolding wooden chairs in a large circle. John pushed the door open and poked his head into the small narrow hall. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly, catching the attention of a little old lady who was busily polishing a huge tea urn on a trestle table nearby. 

“’Scuse me, Ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Duncan? Has she been in here?”

“Alice?” the woman frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. “No, indeed! She’s not home yet, is she? Only Mrs. Rosie said she’d chair this afternoon’s meeting and she’ll be ever so put out if she doesn’t get to do it now. She’s been dying to show everyone her latest crochet patterns and her unique method of preserving-“

“No, no – just wondering if she was here,” John said hastily, attempting to stem the flow of excess information. “Just, er- if she does show up could you let her know that her husband is looking for her? Must run. Thanks so much!”

“You don’t want to stay and see our display of festive tea-cosies, do you dear? They’re very competitively priced-“

“Maybe some other time!” John gave her his most winning smile and allowed Sherlock to drag him out of the hall by the back of his coat. “I mean, I love a good tea cosy, obviously, but er-“

The latch on the door clanged shut and John breathed out in relief. Sherlock snorted quietly and led the way down the icy path that led onto the village green. Rab and Pruny’s ghastly army of snowmen still stood, dotted around the white expanse but theirs were the only figures visible in the blueish light. 

Sherlock bent and squinted down at the snow, taking in several sets of footprints and tracks that zig-zagged and meandered across the green. John did the same, thinking that he could recognise two small sets of prints that must have belonged to the twins. They had clearly added to the number of snowmen earlier that day, as significant amounts of snow had fallen since the day before. 

“She’s a small woman. Around a size four or five at the most, do you think?” John queried, taking out his phone and using it as a torch to get a closer look at the prints on the ground. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement and inched along the ground, his lanky frame bent into an almost perfect right angle as he stooped to study the varied tracks. “Yes, most likely wearing wellington boots. There were several pairs inside the porch at the Duncans house, both mens and womens.”

“There’s quite a few likely ones here, really.” John sighed. “There’s obviously been quite a few women wearing wellies that’ve walked through here in the last few hours. Hang on, though…” he paused. “These ones look reasonably fresh, though – they haven’t frozen sharp around the edges yet. Look, these ones. See?” 

Sherlock squatted next to the small rounded prints and tested the edge of the indent with a gloved forefinger. “Mm. Well done, John. Definite possibility. These were made within the last hour at most.”

“Always the tone of surprise.” John said drily, and peered into the increasing gloom of the tree-ringed village green. “Come on, lets see where they go while there’s still a bit of light left.” 

He grasped Sherlock’s hand and helped him up, before making his way slowly across the snow. He was careful not to mar the prints, holding his phone at arms length to illuminate the trail ahead. 

This caution was largely for nothing, however, as Griz Antonelli suddenly appeared on horseback through the trees from the direction of Hilderbogie House at a brisk canter.

“Hey, you two!” she called hoarsely, and John realised that it was the first time he had actually ever heard the girl say anything. He and Sherlock had only ever seen her in the distance or surrounded by the babel of her sisters. Griz approached them swiftly, the large piebald horse she rode was sweating and steaming slightly in the cold air. As she got closer, Sherlock sidled slightly behind John; his deep mistrust of horses making itself subtly known. John squashed a smile and looked up at Griz, who seemed a little agitated now that he looked at her serious, freckled face. She swung herself out of the saddle easily, her feet meeting the ground firm and sure.

“Everything all right?” John inquired, peering at the tracks that he and Sherlock had been following with a certain amount of dismay. The piebald had smudged and scattered the snow, and it was unlikely that they would find the prints again so easily.

“Mrs. Duncan. You know, Mrs. Duncan? The ministers’ wife? I’ve just seen her heading down to the river and she didnae look too well at all. I tried calling out to her, but the track’s too steep and narrow at the bend – I couldn’t follow her on horseback. By the time I dismounted and tied Charlie up, she’d disappeared.”

“Where?” Sherlock snapped, immediately turning for the gap in the trees that Griz had appeared from. 

“About a half mile back. I couldn’t make out what she was saying – something about a child though?”

“Go and find the Reverend or Mr. Mackie.” Sherlock ordered her. “They’re already out looking for her around the village. Or the doctor, if you can track him down.”

“Right, so.” Griz nodded, and without a further word pitched herself lightly up into the saddle again before trotting off towards the village. 

“Thank goodness at least one of them isn’t overly verbose.” Sherlock said absently, picking up his pace. “Come on, let’s track her down.”

John didn’t like the idea of Mrs. Duncan wandering the banks of the river at dusk at all, not with slushy snow and mud covering the narrow path that ran alongside the water. What on earth could have convinced her to make the trip?

Darkness seemed to be falling more and more swiftly, and already a thin crescent moon had edged above the distant hills. Crows were settling in flurries in the higher branches of the skeletal trees in the woods. More than once, John slipped on the uneven icy path and had to grab for Sherlock’s arm before he ended up on the ground. Eventually, Sherlock sighed and kept hold of John’s gloved hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. Annoyingly, even though Sherlock was wearing his usual leather shoes he was managing to maintain his balance with what looked like perfect ease.

“She must have seen Mrs. Duncan down here,” Sherlock observed, gesturing down a steep track that branched off from the main woodland path that led onto Hilderbogie estate. They stopped, both men listening hard. 

“Mrs. Duncan! Alice Duncan?” John shouted, cupping his free hand around his mouth. There was no response, only a brief flurry of wildlife in a small thicket of bilberries nearby. “Mrs. Duncaaaan!”

“Come on.” Sherlock led the way down the track, holding onto the trunk of a nearby sapling and helping John down the first few yards. He bent and peered at the muddy, snowy ground with the help of John’s phone torch. “Look, here are her prints again – that infernal creature didn’t have the chance to smudge them.”

“Heading left. Damn it, that’s right on the very edge, too…” John grimaced, cautiously making his way along the path. The river wasn’t frozen over entirely, and the water had left the path treacherously slippery. “What the hell is she doing out here?”

“Rational thinking may not be involved.” Sherlock muttered darkly, keeping hold of the back of John’s jacket as he followed him slowly through the slush and reeds. 

Both of them called out Mrs. Duncan’s name repeatedly, but to no response. The fading light of the sky had dimmed to the darkest blue now, and it seemed less and less likely that they would find her in the gloom. The snow and mud of the path no longer showed a clear set of prints, and John tried not to think about how deep the river looked or how fast the current was. 

“Someone is following us,” Sherlock paused, turning to face the path along which they had come. Sure enough after a moment or two a slight figure appeared, carefully picking their way along the path. At first, John held out hope that it might be Mrs. Duncan; but as the figure grew closer he saw that they were slightly too tall and the sloping gait was rather familiar.

Murdy Antonelli appeared out of the darkness, holding up her hand against the light of the torchlight he directed at her. “Have you found her yet? I just ran into Griz in the square.”

“You should really go back, Murdy; it’s not safe.” John said imploringly, gesturing at the messy path.

She gave him a scathing look. “And who out of the three of us know this path better?”

John glanced at Sherlock who pulled a faint face and shrugged. “I suppose she’s got a point. Can you swim?” he added as an afterthought.

“’Course.” Murdy nodded brusquely, making her way ahead of them. “I’m not the one who’s likely to fall in, though.”

They continued onwards for perhaps another quarter of a mile, and John was almost entirely without hope of finding any trace of the ministers wife when Murdy paused suddenly. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked sharply. Wordlessly, Murdy reached out towards a low-hanging branch of one of the nearby willow trees and snagged something caught in a bow. When she held her narrow pale fingers in the torch beam, there was a long strand of blue wool wrapped around them. 

“That looks like it’s from a scarf of hers.” Murdy said quietly. “She must have caught it on the tree.”

“This scarf?” John queried, moving forward a few paces and picking up a muddied bundle of wool that had become entangled in a holly bush. Murdy nodded, her face stony as she took in the sight. “Maybe she didn’t notice it getting caught on her way past?”

Neither Murdy or Sherlock replied, although both wore similarly unhopeful expressions. He sighed, and began to walk again. “Come on. At least we know she definitely came this way now.”

They continued in silence for a couple of minutes. John wordlessly took off his gloves and handed them to Murdy, who stared at him in something approaching confusion before pulling them on without argument. He hadn’t been able to forget how pale her hands had looked in the torchlight. 

“What’s that?” Murdy suddenly rasped, coming to an abrupt stop. “Oh, hell. Mrs. Duncan!”

Murdy darted forwards, clearly catching sight of something around the bend of the river. John shouted a vague warning, which she ignored entirely. He and Sherlock followed on Murdy’s heels as quickly as possible, all caution thrown to the wind as they saw the thin figure of Alice Duncan kneeling on a wide low tree branch that overhung the river. She seemed to be desperately searching for something in the depths of the water, hanging onto the bough with one shaking hand. She was leaning precariously over the swiftly moving depths, looking aghast.

“Mrs. Duncan?” Sherlock called out softly, evidently wary of startling her. “Mrs. Duncan, can you hear me?”

“Oh thank goodness, you’ve come!” she answered shakily, catching sight of them. “Thank god. You’ve got to help.”

“Of course we’ll help.” John said instantly, making his way towards the huge oak tree that she had climbed along. “Come on, give me your hand and I’ll help you back. You must be frozen.”

She shook her pale head vehemently. “No, I can’t! You don’t understand, Doctor Watson – there’s a child out here. I’ve been looking and looking. I’m so scared that they’ll have fallen in!”

“What child?” Murdy asked, following Sherlock to the edge of the water. “Whose child is it, Mrs. Duncan?”

Mrs. Duncan gave a helpless gesture, the movement causing the branch where she was perched to shudder slightly. She had to clutch the wood tightly, and gasped. “I don’t know, Murdina – I received a message shortly after I got home. That there was a poor lost child on the banks of the river, cast among the rushes like Moses. I _had_ to come!” her face crumpled slightly. “Oh god, what if they’ve drowned? What if I’m too late?”

Tears began to course down her face, which she wiped away messily with the back of her hand. “I’ve been looking and looking and I just can’t find them.”

John stared at her, deep unease giving way to dread as he watched the way she was clinging to the branch. It was wide and sturdy enough, but he didn’t think that it would take his weight as well as hers. He didn’t think that she would be able to return to the riverbank unaided, though. 

“Mrs. Duncan, there is no child out here.” Sherlock called, in as soothing a voice as he could manage. He held out his hands imploringly, a gesture that John could read as clearly as words. (Oh, Christ. Even _he_ doesn’t know what to do.) “I promise you, I’d be able to tell. Nobody mentioned a word to us in the village about a missing child, and we spoke to several people on our way here. There has been a mistake.”

“No, the child must be here somewhere! The message was so clear…” Mrs. Duncan said shakily. “I just haven’t found them yet. Oh, if only I’m in time…”

“Well they’re not right here, anyway.” John pointed out gently. “Why don’t you come back to the bank and we’ll help you keep looking?”

“I thought I heard something out in the reeds here, below the tree.” Mrs. Duncan whispered. 

Sherlock craned his neck and shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s just the water breaking around a large stone in the water. Please, Mrs Duncan – do you think you can move towards John? He’ll help you back if you can get to arms reach.”

He met John’s eyes meaningfully. John nodded and managed to climb quickly up onto the nearest low branch to the one where Mrs. Duncan sat, extending an arm towards her. 

“Come on, Mrs. Duncan. It’s only a few feet. Come and take my hand, please?”

Mrs. Duncan seemed inclined to argue for a moment, staring around herself a little wildly. Eventually however, she nodded jerkily and shuffled sideways along the branch, clutching it with both hands. Sherlock directed the torchlight steadily at the tree branch, illuminating her way as best he could. In the bright light, Mrs. Duncan looked dishevelled and half-frozen; her hair was mussed and her tweed skirt was torn in more than one place. She clearly hadn’t taken the time to prepare for the bitter temperature other than pulling on her boots and coat. 

“That’s right. Come on, you’re nearly there.” John encouraged her, his skin prickling as he watched her halting progress along the bough.

For a minute it almost looked as if Mrs. Duncan was going to make it back to the river bank and the path without mishap. John edged as far out as he felt he could risk, stretching out his arm until it ached horribly; but he was still several feet away from her when a sudden flurry of crows erupted from around the bend, coming to roost in the branches of the oak tree. Their harsh cries startled everyone, and Mrs. Duncan looked around, wide eyed; her fingers scrabbling ineffectually at the bark. 

It wasn’t until hours later that John realised that perhaps she had imagined they were the cries of an infant. In absolute horror he watched as she slipped sideways from the bough, her hands continuing to claw helplessly for the branch as she plummeted several feet into the dark waters of the river. He pitched forward instinctively, clutching at empty air; for one frantic split second imagining that he might be able to catch hold of her arm. She disappeared into the depths with a surprisingly soft splash, and he barely managed to keep hold of the branch with one arm; watching as she was pushed swiftly out into the current. She thrashed and gasped convulsively, fighting feebly to rise to the surface. It was clear that the strong current and the shock of the cold water were going to win, though.

Forcing himself upright to straddle the branch, he began to pull off his heavy jacket; cursing the tightly laced boots he wore. Dimly, back on the bank he could hear Sherlock swearing and tearing off his coat as he made for the icy water. He only looked around, however, when he heard Sherlock’s hoarse shout of warning – turning just in time to see Murdy throwing herself straight into the depths of the dark river.


	16. Chapter 16

“JOHN! NO!” 

He froze, on the very edge of jumping into the water; but Sherlock’s harsh shout caused him to pause. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from Murdy, who was striking out into the river in the roiling wake of Mrs. Duncan. Her hair was flattened and sleek against her skull as she moved through the water and he could hear her breath coming in loud sharp gasps, no doubt from the chill of the water.

“We can’t both go in!” Sherlock hissed, flinging off his coat and toeing off his shoes. “You need to stay here.”

“But-“ John protested, still aching to follow the figures into the water. Mrs. Duncan was no longer visible; he couldn’t tell if this was due to the darkness and the speed in which she had been pushed downstream, or if she had already been pulled under the surface. His skin crawled as he watched Murdy kick through the water. She seemed to be a reasonably strong swimmer, but for how long? The water was frozen along the banks and must be barely above freezing point beyond and she was weighed down by her clothes. 

It was only a matter of time before the slight girl would be exhausted, and that was even before she managed to find Mrs. Duncan. If she managed to find her at all.

“John, think!” Sherlock ordered impatiently, and John turned reluctantly to watch him wading into the water. His face was tense and he grimaced at the shock of the icy temperature. “There’s every chance at least one of them will need medical attention once they’re clear of the river. You can’t do that if you’re hypothermic too!”

Without another word he threw himself after Murdy; his long arms cutting through the water as he kicked away from the bank. John nearly cried out at the sight; there were so many ways this could go so wrong.

“Sherlock Holmes, you… you utter _bastard!_ ” he said numbly, barely aware that he was speaking aloud. “I can’t lose you again. Don’t you fucking _dare_.” 

He sat on the tree branch, his jacket hanging limply from one arm, and watched Sherlock slip through the water. Between the swift current and his powerful strokes, he rapidly disappeared into the gloom. With an effort, John pulled himself together and scrambled back to the trunk and down to the ground, barely feeling the resulting grazes to his hand and one of his shins in his haste. He grabbed hold of Sherlock and Murdy’s discarded coats and shoes, bundling them up and tucking them under his arm before heading further down the path. He knew that the strength of the rivers current would not allow them to return to the same spot on the river bank. 

He dodged around low hanging branches and tripped over weed chokeed roots, slipping in the slushy mud more than once. The sound of his own breathing and the hammering of his heart made it difficult for him to be sure whether he could hear any of the three swimmers moving through the water; although at one point he was almost sure he heard Murdy’s voice desperately rasp “Stop! Don’t- don’t _struggle_ “

He peered out through the tangled undergrowth and tall reeds but couldn’t catch sight of anyone in the water beyond. He frantically fished in his pocket for his phone and shone the torchlight out onto the water. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of Sherlock; his skin and saturated shirt shockingly white as he darted through the narrow beam of light. Within seconds however he had disappeared once more.

(Don’t fucking panic. You just saw him. You just saw him, and he’s doing fine. Think!)

As he continued to move down the path, John glanced at the screen of his phone and froze as he noticed the three bars in the top corner. He seemed to be in one of the vanishingly rare areas of local mobile coverage and he briefly agonised over whether to just keep going and being able to assist immediately; or whether to call for help. And whom could he call? Hopefully Griz would have caught up with the local doctor by now, or with the Reverend or Mackie. An ambulance would be ideal, of course; but who knew how long it would take to arrive if it had to come all the way from Aberdeen?

Cursing, he hastily scrolled through the list of numbers and found Violet’s landline; hoping against hope that she or Patrick weren’t out of earshot of the phone or too distracted by their painting to answer. He badly wanted to keep moving down the path, but didn’t dare to in case he slipped out of coverage. The ten seconds or so it took for Violet to answer seemed to take millennia, but when she heard the tone of his voice she mercifully stayed silent and listened.

“Right.” she interrupted briskly, once she had quickly grasped the situation. ”Where did they go in? Okay. Don’t panic, John. They’ll be moving into the grounds by now, and the easiest place for them to get out will be the old jetty next to the boathouse. Get there as soon as you can; there’s rope and an old lifebelt if you need them. Move!”

Without another word she hung up and John raced onwards, uncaring whether he tripped or fell as long as he managed to keep going. As he rounded the next bend he could make out the faint lights of Hilderbogie house in the distance. A second later he spied the low boundary wall of the estate, then the path and open gate that he and Sherlock had walked through earlier that day on their way to the village. The wild undergrowth and messy path gave way to a clean snowy expanse of gardens and lawn. He managed to pick up his pace, scanning the bank for the old wooden jetty that he had noticed the day before from the window of Sherlock’s room. The boathouse was screened by trees; but it was the sound of an old rowing boat rhythmically hitting the posts of the jetty that alerted him to its whereabouts; a dull heavy beat clearly audible above the smooth rush of the dark river.

Dropping the coats and shoes on the ground, he darted to the end of the jetty and scanned the water frantically, still directing the beam of the torch out onto the surface. 

“Sherlock! Murdy! Are you there?!” he shouted, as loudly as possible. “Sherlock! I’m on the jetty!”

For a long minute he didn’t hear anything. He became slowly aware of the fact that he was clenching his fists so tightly his fingernails were in danger of puncturing the numb skin of his palms. “Sherlock! For christs sake _answer me!_ ”

Finally ( _Oh, god, finally!_ ) he heard a breathless shout in reply to his calls. He craned his neck, shining the torchlight until he could catch sight of the struggling figures in the water. Sherlock was holding Mrs. Duncan’s horribly limp form above the water with one hand, laboriously pulling himself through the water with his left arm and towards the jetty. He was clearly struggling with the extra weight and his breath came in harsh pants as he swam. John looked around feverishly and spied the gabled wooden cover for the lifebelt at one side of the jetty; within seconds he had unlooped the rope and hurled the old red and white striped ring as far out into the water as he could. 

Murdy got to it first. He felt almost lightheaded with relief as she appeared from behind Sherlock and hooked her arm through the lifebelt. She was grimacing and breathing heavily as she trod water; kicking heavily back towards Sherlock and Mrs. Duncan and pushing the rope into Sherlock’s hand. Once John was sure that both Murdy and Sherlock had a decent hold on the lifebelt, he began to haul; the weight of their bodies and the pull of the current making the task seem almost impossible. His hands were numb with the cold and his biceps ached with the effort, but he slowly began to make headway; sheer adrenaline giving him welcome reserves of strength. He didn’t dare take his eyes off 

Sherlock as he heaved on the rope, watching him fight to support Mrs. Duncan’s limp weight as he kicked towards the jetty. Murdy clung to the lifebelt, her teeth gritted as she attempted to struggle through the water. 

He heard heavy footsteps pound down the jetty behind him, but didn’t look around even when he heard Patrick’s familiar voice cry: “John! Please, let me help.”

He almost sagged with relief as Patrick seized on the rope, but didn’t let go. Together they hauled on the sodden line, the freezing hemp scouring their palms. With Patrick’s additional strength the three figures in the water approached the jetty swiftly, and within another twenty seconds or so Sherlock had grabbed on to one of the supporting posts while Murdy clung limpet-like to the side of the ancient rowing boat. John darted forwards and caught hold of Mrs. Duncan under her arms. As he heaved her from the water, 

Patrick leapt into the snow-filled boat and grasped Murdy’s hands, lifting her out of the depths with ease. 

John dumped Mrs. Duncan unceremoniously on the jetty and bent to grasp Sherlock’s outstretched arms. In the dim light, Sherlock’s face was bone-white, his hair saturated and plastered flat across his forehead. His teeth were chattering with cold, his eyes fixed on John. 

“I’m…all…right!” he gasped, his chest heaving shallowly. “Just get me out!”

“You bloody better be all right, you utter, _utter_ wanker!” John muttered furiously, heaving on his arms with all his might. Sherlock’s waterlogged clothes made him even heavier than usual, and John’s shoulder seemed to be shrieking silently at him as he pulled. Patrick appeared at his side and grasped Sherlock’s left arm; between them they lifted the detectives’ shuddering form from the water and collapsed in a heap on the jetty. Sherlock landed half on top of John and he lay still for a long moment, his chest hitching shallowly against John’s shoulder. John was swiftly soaked with icy water and was having trouble breathing himself, but he briefly wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s neck and pressed a hard kiss above his ear, tasting river water, icy mud and sheer breathless relief. 

Patrick rolled away and joined Murdy where she was kneeling over Mrs. Duncan’s unmoving form. John swore quietly and gently pushed Sherlock away, following Patrick to bend over the ministers wife.

“Sherlock, Murdy – coats and shoes over there.” he ordered, pointing in the direction of the discarded pile. “Wrap up as best you can. Don’t take off any more layers ‘til we’re back at the house.”

“I brought the jeep over.” Patrick said, stripping off his long overcoat and draping it over Mrs. Duncan once he saw John doing the same. 

Murdy nodded, her teeth chattering. John spared a glance at her as she wobbled to her feet, but she seemed capable of walking. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, before heaving himself upright. With Patrick’s help, they made their way to the large black jeep that stood on the lawn nearby, its engine still running. 

Mrs. Duncan was breathing, although the movement of her chest was weak and shallow and she didn’t respond to any of John’s attempts to rouse her. Gently pulling her eyelid up, he shone the torchlight into her pupil and noted their extreme dilation. Her thin lips were blueish with cold. (Christ. Not in the water long enough for severe hypothermia, not by half. But this is not good. Not bloody good at all.)

“John, can we move her?” Patrick called, flicking on the headlights of the jeep and suddenly bathing the jetty in powerful light. 

“We don’t have much choice. Come and give a hand?” John shouted back, shielding his eyes with a shaking hand. “We’ve got to keep her level as possible though. Got to keep the blood flow to the brain.”

Together they carried Mrs. Duncan to the jeep, keeping her as tightly wrapped in their coats as possible. Murdy shrank into the rear footwell, folding herself as small as possible to allow them to lay the unconscious woman across the wide back seat. Sherlock sat in the front passenger seat, adjusting the hot air heaters to maximum and angling them towards the back. He was wrapped tightly in his Belstaff, his hair dripping in rivers onto his shoulders and his hands were shaking as he reached for the controls on the dashboard. John crouched next to Mrs. Duncan on the floor near Murdy, taking her pulse. It was present, but it fluttered feebly.

Patrick closed the door after him and ran swiftly round to the drivers seat, slipping behind the wheel and starting the ignition within seconds. 

“Is she okay?” Murdy asked in a small, rather shaky voice. She was incredibly pale, her wide eyes unable to look away from Mrs. Duncan’s unmoving form.

“I hope so.” John murmured, holding the woman carefully in place on the seat and wincing as they bumped over some obstacle on the snow covered lawn. “We’ve got to get her warmed up carefully and back to hospital as fast as we can though.”

It seemed to take a ridiculously long time to get back to Hilderbogie house, although it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes’ drive across the grounds. Patrick pulled up outside the kitchen door, and within seconds Violet wrenched it open; her face tense. 

“Right, come on you daft gits. Into the warm.” she ordered, coming to help Murdy out of the back seat and wrapping her arm around the shaking girls shoulders. She cast a troubled look at Mrs. Duncan in the back seat, but didn’t comment. Murdy nodded and stumbled across the gravel wordlessly, letting Violet guide her into the warmly lit kitchen. 

Patrick went to assist Sherlock, but his offer of support was declined; the detective leant briefly against the side of the jeep before making his way slowly into the house. John didn’t dare look away from Mrs. Duncan although he ached to follow Sherlock, to be absolutely _sure_ he was uninjured. 

Together, he and Patrick gently lifted Mrs. Duncan from the back seat and carried her into the kitchen. Violet closed the door swiftly behind them and pointed towards the ancient chintz sofa that she had dragged in front of the huge iron stove. Murdy and Sherlock had both collapsed into kitchen chairs in front of the fireplace, which was burning fiercely. A large pile of towels, blankets and dry clothes were heaped on the kitchen table, and the kettle was swiftly coming to a boil on the stove. 

“John, what do you need?” Violet asked briskly. “I’ve called Doctor MacFadden and an ambulance. What can we do in the meantime?”

“We can’t warm her up too fast.” John said, peeling off the layers of damp coats. “But we should get her out of these wet clothes. You two as well,” he added, casting a look over at Sherlock and Murdy. “Get dried off and wrap up warm. Can you make them some hot drinks, Vi? Something with sugar in it.”

“Patrick, you do that. I’ll help John undress Mrs. Duncan. I think she’d probably prefer it if a lady assisted,” Violet said with a ghost of a smile. She squeezed his arm as he reached for the kettle. “Get a wriggle on, you two,” she addressed Sherlock and Murdy. “You’ll get trench foot or wet rot if you’re not careful.”

“I smell like river mud.” Sherlock muttered darkly. _“Vile.”_ He got to his feet and began to peel off his coat which he let fall to the stone floor with a faint splat. Murdy got out of her chair with a faint sigh and grabbed a towel and a blanket from the pile on the table. She disappeared into the scullery, presumably for some modesty. Sherlock evidently had no such qualms and stripped down to his pants, wrapped himself in a thick woollen blanket as swiftly as possible and returned to his fireside seat within seconds.

Between them, Violet and John removed Mrs. Duncan’s sodden layers of tweed and wool. Her coat had been lost at some point in the water, thankfully – if she had worn it for long the extra weight would have undoubtedly have dragged her under. 

Violet grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors from a nearby drawer and quickly snipped off Mrs. Duncan’s blouse before draping a couple of blankets over her carefully. The ministers wife was not entirely unconscious; now and again her eyelids flickered feebly and she made weak attempts to swallow. She was still far from lucid, but the way in which she was attempting to move gave John a little more hope. Together he and Violet began to chafe and massage her limbs under the blankets in an attempt to stimulate her circulation. 

Patrick hovered nearby after placing a couple of mugs of hot sweet tea on the edge of the table nearby. After a moment or two, he silently fetched an extra towel from the pile and very gently began to dab at her pale hair. The moisture was darkly staining the upholstery of the old sofa under her head. 

“I don’t think she’s got any other injuries, thank goodness.” John murmured, massaging her small limp feet. “But she was already weak going into the water. She shouldn’t have been discharged from hospital so soon; the atropine will still have been affecting her nervous system. The shock of the water was too much for her.”

“What was she doing out there?” Violet asked with a frown. “Was she in her right mind?”

John was silent as he mulled this over. “She was agitated, certainly. Not drunk though, as far as I could tell.”

“Of course she wasn’t.” Murdy said, suddenly appearing at his shoulder. She was wrapped tightly in a voluminous velvet dressing gown that clearly belonged to Violet and a heavy blanket around her shoulders. She had clearly made an attempt to dry her shaggy dark hair and it stood out around her head like a haystack. “Why would you think she was?”

John remained silent for a moment. Murdy was no fool, and she knew Mrs. Duncan much better than any of the rest of them did. “Her husband seemed to think that she has a bit of a problem with alcohol. Don’t spread it around, though.”

Murdy was shaking her head almost as soon as he started talking. “No, that’s rubbish. I’ve never seen her drunk, ever.”

“People can be very clever at hiding these things, you know.” John said quietly, hoping that Mrs. Duncan was still unaware of what was being said. “She wouldn’t have wanted people to know.”

Murdy gave him a slightly scathing glance and was just opening her mouth to speak when the kitchen door slammed open, admitting the Reverend Duncan and a younger man in a heavy waxed coat clutching a scarred medical case. 

“Oh Lord, Alice!” Duncan cried, stopping dead at the sight of his wife on the sofa. She seemed to register the familiar sound of his voice and her eyelids fluttered. The hand that Violet was rubbing between her palms twitched slightly. Duncan clutched the end of the sofa, horror struck. 

“I think she’s going to be all right.” John said quietly. “But she does need better care than I can give here. You’re Doctor MacFadden, I take it?”

The man with the case nodded briskly, dropping his coat on the floor and bending over Mrs. Duncan. He was a slight man, with a kind and rather prematurely lined face. “Indeed. How long was she in the water?”

“Probably about ten minutes or so. But the effort of fighting the current will have taken its toll too. She’s beginning to warm up slightly, some signs of consciousness but still clearly in shock.”

“Any signs of fibrillation?”

“Not yet. I think it’s still a possibility, though.”

MacFadden nodded again, and bent to examine her vitals. Patrick moved out of his way, and attempted to get the Reverend to take a seat nearby but the man just clutched the back of the sofa wordlessly, looking utterly shocked. 

“How long before the ambulance gets here?” John queried.

“Mmph.” Doctor MacFadden grimaced. “How long is a piece of string? I’ve called mountain rescue though; they can be a safer bet this time of year. They’ll be able to get her back to Aberdeen in a Land Rover. I reckon she’s stable enough to move, as long as we’re careful. Her temperature indicates moderate rather than severe hypothermia; but it’s a close thing. What do you think?”

“Well we can’t do much for her here.” John murmured. “There’s a possibility that she might need peritoneal lavage and I’m assuming you’re not set up for that at the local surgery.”  
MacFadden shook his head, and glanced up at the Reverend. “There’s every chance she’ll be fine, pal. Don’t fret.”

“Can’t… Can’t I just bring her home?” Duncan whispered, his chin trembling slightly. “She hates being in the hospital so much.”

“No can do, Reverend.” MacFadden said briskly. “Hang on, I think I can hear someone the now-“

Mr. Brodie arrived seconds after two green uniformed paramedics strode into the kitchen, looking anxious with Scunner on his heels. “I saw the rescue vehicle outside – what’s happened?!” He seemed to sag slightly at the sight of Violet who was attempting to persuade Sherlock to start towelling his hair, which was still dripping onto the shoulders of his thick blanket. 

She caught sight of him and raised a placating hand at once, dropping the towel carelessly over Sherlock’s head. She crossed the kitchen swiftly and took his arm. “I’m fine, Mr. B. It’s poor Mrs. Duncan; she’s had a tumble into the river.” She nodded at the sofa, where the paramedics were evaluating the unfortunate womans’ condition. “These two loons just fished her out.”

Mr. Brodie craned his neck to glance over the back of the sofa in front of the stove, his normally cheerful features pinched with surprise and concern. The medics were busily wrapping Mrs. Duncan in a foil blanket and establishing her symptoms, and John took a step back; grateful to hand over to the local team and doctor. He led the Reverend over to the kitchen table and the tall, stately man followed him numbly; allowing himself to be gently pushed into one of the tall carved chairs. Patrick pressed a cup of tea into his hands, which he took as if he had no idea of how it got there. 

“It’s no good.” Reverend Duncan whispered, staring intently into the depths of the floral cup. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Things just can’t go on like this, Doctor Watson. Not when she’s endangering herself like this-“

“She seemed to think that there was a child by the river.” John murmured quietly, pulling a seat up next to him. “She said that she received a message earlier that there was a lost child down there. She was looking for it when we found her. She certainly didn’t go into the water on purpose…”

“What message, though?” Duncan asked shakily. “I didn’t see any sign of one in the house and we don’t use an answering machine.”

“Text message?” John asked tentatively, although he had definite doubts himself about the existence of the message. The way Mrs. Duncan had described it, it had sounded almost mystical. ( _Cast among the rushes like Moses…_ )

“Round here? It’s hit or miss at the best of times with mobile phones. Nobody relies on a text message in these parts. No, it sounds like the other times. You remember, I told you?”

John nodded sympathetically, and glanced back at Mrs. Duncan. The paramedics were carefully strapping her to a rigid stretcher, ensuring that the insulating layers were still in place. “It looks like they’re getting ready to move her.”

Duncan was on his feet in a trice, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth. John took the untouched tea from his hand, as it seemed that the man was more likely to drop it than drink it. 

“Reverend, I’ll take you to Aberdeen.” Mr. Brodie said at once, watching the man with concern. “I don’t think there’s room for you in the Land Rover, is there?”

“No, ‘fraid not.” one of the men said briskly, but not unsympathetically. “Not if we need to keep her on the stretcher.”

The Reverend seemed likely to protest, and then nodded weakly; his eyes never leaving his wife’s listless form. He bent and kissed her forehead gently before standing aside to let them carry her out the door. 

“Be careful on those roads, Mr. Brodie.” Violet instructed him sternly. “It’s bloody icy out there. Reverend, I’m sure Mrs. Duncan will be alright. They wouldn’t risk moving her like that if they weren’t confident.” 

“Thank you, Miss Vernet,” the minister said absently, already on his way out the door. Mr. Brodie followed him out swiftly, placing a guiding hand on his shoulder after exchanging a worried glance with Violet. Scunner trotted arthritically after them, and Patrick closed the kitchen door with a flurry of snowflakes and an abrupt sneeze.

Everyone seemed to collapse slightly in the aftermath, Violet kicking off her shoes and dropping into a kitchen chair with a sigh. 

Patrick squeezed her shoulder and sat next to her. She smiled at him fondly, and turned to Sherlock and Murdy who were steaming gently in the heat from the fireplace. “Bloody well done, you bunch of muppets. Although Murdy, I reckoned you had a bit more sense than Sherlock here. Chucking yourself into the river at this time of year is lunacy, even if you are saving vicars wives.”

Murdy shrugged a little mulishly, wrapping herself a little tighter in her borrowed dressing down. “Seemed like the best plan at the time. I knew the river best out of the three of us and I’m a decent swimmer.”

“It was the best idea.” Sherlock agreed unexpectedly, holding out his cup for a refill of tea. “It was only a matter of approximately twelve seconds, but she would probably have been pulled under before I got to you. It made all the difference that you managed to hold her above the water until then.”

“I’m still going to tell your dad on you if you ever do it again, though.” Violet said firmly. 

Murdy sighed theatrically, tilting her head back and closing her eyes wearily. Her tired, pale face seemed to have gained a little colour after Sherlock’s faint praise. “You’re not going to tell him this time?”

Violet lit a cigarette and shook her head after a moment or two. She exhaled a lungful of pungent smoke and sighed. “Not this time. He’s got enough to worry about at the moment. We’d better get your clothes dried quickly, though – it’d be a bit obvious if you went home in anything of mine. Any of my clothes would drown you. Pun unintended.” 

“Thanks.” Murdy muttered, wriggling her bare toes on the stone floor. 

“Why don’t you ring him now and tell him you’re having dinner here? That’ll give us a bit of time to work with.” Violet suggested. “Patrick, old spoon, you can drive her home later?”

“Of course.” Patrick agreed at once. “I’d be delighted.”

“I _still_ smell like river mud.” Sherlock said darkly. “I need a bath.”

“Well you usually smell like an overripe durian fruit, so I reckon it’s an improvement.” Violet said cheerfully, flicking some ash into the fire. “I reckon your suit is probably a write-off but I’ll sent it to the cleaners tomorrow and see what they can do with it.” 

As Sherlock began to shuffle haughtily past her chair she grabbed a handful of his blanket and glared at him. “And don’t fucking do that again, you silly twit. Understood? Murdy knows the river, but you don’t. Not really.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and then caught sight of the rather fierce look in her eyes. After a moment or two, he nodded minutely and didn’t even complain when John placed a guiding hand under his arm when he turned to leave the room. 

***

Once they were out of sight of the kitchen, Sherlock allowed himself to move a little more slowly; leaning on John a fraction more heavily than he would usually have done. 

“Alright. Where does it hurt?” John muttered, glaring at him and coming to a halt. 

Sherlock waved a weary arm at him and sighed in a manner that was sharply reminiscent of Murdy a few minutes previously. “I’m _fine_. It’s possible I may have very minor bruising to my left side and hip in a day or two, due to some submerged rocks.”

“Let me see.” John said firmly, taking a step closer. 

Sherlock hitched his trailing tartan blanket more closely round his neck with a distinctly maiden-auntish gesture. “I utterly refuse to strip in this ludicrously ill-heated corridor just so you can satisfy your prurient curiosity over whether or not I might need a plaster or two.”

“I’m taking a look at you as soon as we’re upstairs, then.” John said firmly. “You were bloody lucky to get away with chucking yourself into the water like that.”

“The risk was _minimal_ ”, Sherlock protested crossly, and started making his way across the entrance hall and towards the stairs. He leaned rather more heavily on the bannisters than he normally would, and didn’t object when John placed a steadying hand under his other arm.

Back in their room, Sherlock huddled on the sofa in front of the fireplace while John quickly ran a hot bath next door; the steam billowing through the chilly air and instantly condensing on the cerulean blue tiles of the art deco bathroom. When Sherlock shuffled in and reluctantly dropped his blanket on the floor, John clenched his fist and with a considerable effort managed to restrain himself from swearing. Along Sherlock’s left flank and hip several long grazes stood out, livid against his pallid skin. 

“Look, what would you have had me do?” Sherlock snapped, rather defensively. “Just let them both go under?”

John merely shook his head, and watched him step into the depths of the huge enamel bath. He knew that it was irrational to be angry with Sherlock for throwing himself into the water, for saving Mrs. Duncan’s and probably Murdy’s lives. But the sick feeling still surged in his stomach, he still felt the aftershocks of dread that he had experienced watching 

Sherlock disappear into the depths of the water.

Wordlessly, he knelt on the tiles next to the bath and leant his arms along the edge, letting his chin drop to his forearms. “Just…” he sighed, and shut his eyes. “Just tell me, honestly, if you’re hurt anywhere else alright?”

He heard Sherlock sigh as he sank deeper into the water. “I promise I’m not. Minor scratches and bruises, nothing more. Feel free to play Doctor if you must; but it’s barely necessary.” 

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was regarding him with a fond if slightly exasperated expression. The heat from the steaming water was starting to bring a flush to his chilled skin, and John reached out to touch his cheek after a shared gaze that lasted several long moments. 

“It doesn’t get any easier, watching you throw yourself into danger like that.” he murmured quietly. “Shut up; I know that this is the life we lead. I know that it’s not going to stop happening. It’s just… difficult to watch. Makes me a bit sick, to be honest.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but something that he saw in John’s expression clearly made him pause. He sighed quietly and nodded, before squeezing John’s hand tightly. “I do know that,” he admitted.

“Do you?” John murmured, almost to himself. Sherlock didn’t reply, merely watching him through half-closed eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time John had dressed Sherlocks injuries and they had both changed into dry clothes it was nearly seven. Sherlock insisted on going downstairs again, although John spotted him throwing a longing glance towards the bed once or twice as he buttoned his shirt. 

The reasoning behind this became clear when Sherlock dropped heavily into the fireside armchair in the drawing room and leaned towards Murdy, who was curled up on the hearthrug warming her hands around a steaming mug of tea. “Mrs. Duncan. Not an alcoholic, correct?”

“Yes.” Murdy said firmly, setting down her tea on the white marble hearth. She was still wrapped in Violet’s orange velvet dressing gown and her uncombed hair was drying into wild clumps around her long face. The overall effect was rather imperious and she looked determined as she regarded Sherlock, as if anticipating an argument. “Positive. I’ve been visiting their house for a couple of years to borrow books. I’d have _noticed_. She does loads around the parish; she’s on every committee there is and visits everyone in Hilderbogie who needs any kind of help. She keeps the vicarage so clean you could eat your tea off the lino. There’s never a weed in the gardens and she grows tons of vegetables to give away to people. You can’t tell me she’d manage all that and hide a serious drink problem at the same time.” 

Sherlock nodded, and looked expectantly at her. “Extrapolate, then.” he said, with a faint air of challenge. 

John sank onto the sofa next to Patrick, who caught his eye with a smile and handed him a glass of sherry from a silver tray on the coffee table. Patrick looked intrigued at the exchange going on at the fireside, and his book soon lay discarded on his knee.

“On what?” Murdy shot back.

“On why the Reverend told us that she suffers from alcoholism. You know the man reasonably well; you tell us why he did that.” Sherlock half smiled, leaning towards her as he leant his elbows on his knees. He brought the tips of his steepled fingers to his mouth and looked expectant.

Murdy suddenly looked a little uncertain and defensive. Having been in her position more than once; John felt rather sorry for her. He was nevertheless confident that the girl could stand her ground in the face of Sherlock’s interrogation. And despite the rather tense atmosphere, something in Murdy’s demeanour suggested that she was relishing being taken seriously like this.

“Well either he really believes that she’s a drunk.” she said eventually, twisting the end of the sash of her dressing gown between her skinny fingers. “Or… or he’s lying.”

“Which?” Sherlock demanded. “Is he a fool or a liar?” 

Murdy glared at him fiercely. After a long moment she dropped her gaze and muttered reluctantly, “He’s no fool.”

“Ergo-“ Sherlock drawled, expectant.

“But why would he lie?!” she burst out, defiantly. Her knuckles were white as she worried the velvet between her fingers. “Why would he do that?”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Miss Antonelli, you’re clearly not a fool either. _You tell me._ ”

Murdy didn’t speak for several seconds, and she swallowed hard before she looked up at Sherlock again. John recalled her easy familiarity with the minister, the stack of his books that she carried under her arm and winced a little. 

“Because… because I reckon he doesn’t want you to take her seriously.” Murdy muttered. “He’s worried that she’s either told you something or is going to tell you something that he doesn’t want you to believe.”

She sat silently for a several seconds, avoiding Sherlock’s penetrating glance. 

“What do you think that might be?” Patrick asked her softly. John stole a glance at him, and noted that Patrick appeared a little concerned at the way Sherlock was looming over the girl. “You’ve got much more insight into the situation than we do, Murdina.”

“I don’t know.” Murdy said eventually, not looking up from the hearthrug. “I just don’t. Reverend Duncan’s always been really nice to me and my family. He knows I don’t want to stay in Hilderbogie, he tried to persuade my Dad to let me go away to boarding school in Edinburgh when I was offered a place last year. He offered me the loan of his books after that; he even bought new ones that he thought I’d be interested in. I can’t say I know him all that well, though. He thinks I’m just a kid; he doesn’t _confide_ in me.”

“How does he treat his wife?” 

“Ok, I think. He’s always been nice to her in front of me. Patronises her a bit. Finds her a bit embarrassing at times, I reckon… because she does bang on a bit about God. But nobody minds round here – she actually _does_ good stuff for the village, rather than just talking about it.”

“And the Reverend doesn’t?” John asked curiously. 

Murdy shrugged one sharp shoulder and wriggled a little uncomfortably. “I dunno. He’s busy, I suppose. He spends a lot of time in Aberdeen on his chaplaincy work. Apart from the services in the kirk here, he doesn’t do an awful lot in the village.”

“What kind of chaplaincy?” Sherlock queried. “Army?”

Murdy shook her head and wrapped her long arms around her knees. “No, university. He does counselling for the students there. Teaches a module on classics and theology once a year too. That’s why he has books I’m interested in – tactics and such. He’s offered to get me into the university library during the holidays next year. I mean, Miss Vernet’s library here is great but it doesn’t have any journals or much that’s been published within the last hundred years.”

Violet chose this moment to poke her head round the door, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Murdy and Sherlock frowning intently at one another in front of the fire. “Murdy dear, feel free to tell him to get lost if he’s interrogating you. Kick him in the shins if you think it’s warranted.”

“It’s alright.” Murdy muttered, relaxing slightly. “Um. Are my clothes dry yet, Miss Vernet?”

“They should be, more or less. I’ve hung them up next to the stove – why don’t you pop down to the kitchen and get dressed before we have some dinner?” she peered a little more closely at Murdy’s hair and seemed to be having trouble repressing a grin. “There’s a hairbrush in the bathroom next door, if you want one?” 

Murdy nodded and got to her feet, the orange velvet of the dressing gown trailing along the carpet as she made her way to the door. Once she had disappeared down the corridor, Violet came in and perched on the arm of the sofa nearest to Patrick and stole a mouthful of his sherry. The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched as she lolled companionably against his shoulder and his eyes idly followed the leisurely way she crossed her legs. 

“Seriously, you detestable tick. Tread carefully there – she’s smart as paint but she’s still only fourteen. You’re investigating people whom she’s known all her life.”

Sherlock glared at her crossly. “I was hardly applying _thumbscrews_ , you baggage.” 

“He was very restrained.” Patrick assured Violet, looking faintly charmed as she took another sip from his glass. Sherlock directed his glare briefly at Patrick at this well-meant but unwelcome comment, and it darkened substantially when he took in the cosy way Violet was reclining against Singh. 

John suppressed a grin. He was still unsure about whether Violet’s intentions towards Patrick were merely friendly or something more lascivious; but it was endlessly amusing to watch Sherlock’s jealous reaction to someone else stealing her attention. Perhaps Violet had decided that she didn’t mind some of Patrick’s quirks quite as much as she had done before in Edinburgh. Or perhaps she was just being friendly; her usual manner towards people she genuinely liked was so casually flirtatious that it was genuinely hard to tell. 

Regardless of her intentions towards him, however, it was clear that Patrick was relishing her easy affection. Something in the way Patrick cautiously leant back against her made it all too clear that not many people touched him casually or slipped their hand carelessly into his. The way his pensive face softened when Violet grinned at him made it clear that simply being around her was providing some kind of respite from the dark cloud he had arrived under.

“Dinner’s nearly ready if you disgusting worms are hungry. Well, there’s soup and sandwiches – strangely enough, reviving hypothermia victims and idiotic cousins took precedence over culinary endeavour this evening.”

Sherlock looked rather forlorn at this piece of news. Violet drained the last of Patrick’s sherry and got to her feet.

“Chin up, you git! Patrick helped me make your honey cake this afternoon, as promised. With lavender _ithing_ too.” Violet grinned at him with cheerful malice, watching Sherlock’s cheeks flush slightly.

“Has there been any news about Mrs. Duncan?” John asked curiously.

“Just a quick call from Mr. Brodie a little while ago. He said that he only stayed a few minutes after dropping off the Reverend at the hospital, but apparently she’s stable for now.”

“Conscious?” Sherlock asked sharply. “We need to know more about this message she received.”

“Mm, don’t think so.” Violet shook her head. “And I doubt they’ll let you start grilling her straight away either if she’s in Intensive Care, so don’t even think about rushing off to sodding Aberdeen just yet. Come on, you ridiculous carbuncle. Let’s eat.”

***  
Patrick drove Murdy home shortly after they finished their makeshift dinner of cold pheasant sandwiches and curried sweet potato soup. Murdy seemed slightly reluctant to leave the warm, dimly lit kitchen where she had sat silent but content next to John; her elbows propped on the table as she listened to Violet and Sherlock bicker. Patrick had occasionally attempted to draw her into the conversation, and she had answered politely but briefly to his well-meaning questions. By and large though, she seemed happy just to sit and listen to the adults, her large dark eyes flickering from face to face. John occasionally wondered what conclusions she was drawing about their group; about the ridiculous ways in which Violet and Sherlock showed off in front of each other or how Patrick elegantly pulled out Violet’s chair. She met John’s gaze a few times with a faint smile and he had a strong feeling that they had passed some kind of test; that the ordeal of the evening had forged some kind of tentative bond between the group. That she had decided to place some greater level of trust in them.

Patrick held out her rather crumpled green wool coat for her, and after a brief moment of awkwardness Murdy stepped forward and let him gently guide it onto her shoulders. She buttoned it up slowly, then as if struck by a sudden thought delved in the large pockets. 

“Doctor Watson- I’m really sorry, your gloves…” she murmured, rummaging around in first the left and then the right. She only came up with one of the leather gloves that he had lent her on the riverside path, her face a little stricken.

“Murdy, you saved a woman’s life earlier. The gloves don’t matter in the slightest,” John said gently. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll go and find it in the morning,” Murdy said stubbornly. “I took them off along with my coat before going into the water. It’ll probably still be somewhere back there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go and find it myself.” John insisted. “It’s not important. And you were completely brilliant earlier, Murdy. ”

“Completely mental,” Violet added with a grin. “But I agree. Brilliant. It sounds like Mrs Duncan owes you her life, you daft besom.”

“She does.” Sherlock raised his eyes from third slice of honey cake and nodded thoughtfully at the girl. “Very well done, Miss Antonelli.”

***

John was pleasantly surprised to wake the next morning and feel the warm sheets of the old bed being pulled from around his shoulders. They were slowly wrapping more tightly around the gently snoring form of Sherlock. Only the top of Sherlock’s head was visible beneath the heaped mountain of sheets and blankets; dark messy curls and the tip of one ear poking out from under the heavy silk counterpane. The chilly air of the bedroom raised goose-bumps promptly on John’s bare arms and feet and he grabbed a corner of a blanket before Sherlock managed to purloin every layer. Burrowing under the covers and closer to the sleeping detective he gained some petty revenge by slipping his now cold hands over his waist. He grinned when Sherlock awoke with a gasp. 

“Teach you to steal all the covers.” John growled into his ear as Sherlock hissed and frantically batted away his icy hands from the warm skin of his stomach. He wrapped his arms more securely around Sherlock’s torso and laughed quietly into the back of his neck as he wriggled crossly before giving up. 

“This is hardly going to encourage me to spend more time in bed with you in the mornings, you do realise,” Sherlock muttered grumpily. 

“I’ll just have to devise more inventive ways to keep you here, then.” John grinned, sliding a knee between Sherlock’s thighs and pressing a kiss to the top of his spine. 

He watched the line of Sherlock’s cheek round slightly in the dim light as he smiled. “How inventive, exactly?”

“Brilliant. _Einsteinian_ levels of creativity.”

He heard Sherlock snort derisively, but didn’t miss the slight shiver that passed through his frame as John’s teeth slowly grazed the nape of his neck between kisses. He smiled as he inhaled the now achingly familiar scent of Sherlock’s skin, blowing gently on the vertebrae at the base of his neck. 

“You have always seemed quite… unreasonably fond of… C1.” Sherlock’s voice was not quite as steady as it had been a minute before

“Can’t imagine why,” John murmured, slipping his palm slowly up Sherlock’s chest and finding a peaked nipple. “Might possibly be the way it makes your breath come out all shaky when I do _this_ …”

He nipped gently at the uppermost vertebrae, before flicking his tongue rapidly across the same spot; rewarded by the stifled moan that Sherlock tried to mask by burying his face deeper into the pillows. He breathed softly on the damp skin and felt Sherlock’s spine undulate slowly against him. 

“C2, as well… I’m really quite attached to it too…”

“Mmm… oh! Rid-ridiculous.” Sherlock gasped, his fingers knotting in the sheets.

“And by the time I reach… _C3_ you’re usually squirming against me. Mm, yes… like that. Just like that…”

“That’s… that’s T1. Thoracic.”

“Not quite so sensitive, I grant you… but usually by the time I get here Sherlock, you’re- oh yes, hard as a _rock._ Yes, I like T1 too…”

John slipped his hand back down, across the softer skin of Sherlock’s stomach and wrapped his fingers around the prominent erection below, squeezing him firmly only once before letting go.

“Oh! I… I had that _before_ I woke up.”

“Perhaps,” John agreed amiably, slipping lower under the sheets and pulling Sherlock’s pajamas down over his hips. “But it’s certainly not going away…”

He gently pulled Sherlock’s shoulder towards him, bringing him to lie flat on the bed. Sherlock stared at him, evidently attempting to maintain an air of haughty indifference, but the corner of his mouth kept threatening to curl into a grin. His eyes glittered in the half-light as he gazed up at John. “Well… what are you going to do about it then?”

John huffed a laugh and swooped down to kiss him, finding Sherlock’s ridiculous mouth yielding and warm as it opened under his. It was messy and fond, slightly stale from the night and John couldn’t help the way his lips kept curving into a smile as they moved against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t help it, the way he still found such delight in finally having this, the simmering joy he felt as he sank into these embraces. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and straddled his long thighs after clumsily kicking off his own pajamas. The way that Sherlock responded to him now, pliant, relaxed and eager made his heart soar slightly. He seemed so willing to give himself up to sensation, without watchfulness or mistrust. John didn’t need to worry about the way he tightened his arms around him any more; he rarely second-guessed whether or not he was going too far in the way he let the weight of his body lie upon Sherlock’s. 

When Sherlock murmured: “Do that again. And _harder_!” as John’s teeth gently grazed his sharp collarbone, there wasn’t just a surge in arousal; there was also the realisation that Sherlock felt safe in John’s arms. That the ways in which John touched him only brought pleasure, and didn’t make Sherlock revisit fear. 

Grinning fondly, John kissed Sherlock again before working his way down his torso until his cheek rested on the gently heaving skin of his stomach, where he paused. 

“Mm. Maybe I’ll just take a bit of a rest here, shall I? it’s still early. I could do with a bit more of a snooze before breakfast, frankly.”

“John…” Sherlock growled, weaving his fingers into John’s hair. “If you don’t continue downwards within the next ten seconds, I will damn well make a point of getting out of bed at four in the morning for the next _month_.”

“Oh alright, alright…” John sighed and laughed, running his hands down Sherlock’s thighs and pushing them apart as he came to lie between them. 

Ten minutes later, he was feverishly wondering how much longer he could take hearing the way that Sherlock was moaning his name. John was sucking him off achingly slowly, his tongue sliding along the length of Sherlock’s cock before he paused to lick at his inner thighs where they bracketed his face. He was cradling Sherlock’s long feet in his hands, running his fingernails gently along his soles; relishing the way his body arched with each movement. Sherlock’s hands were knotted in his hair, not pushing or guiding him; but almost as if he were trying to ground himself, to be sure that it was John who was bringing him pleasure.

The sudden sharp rapping on the bedroom door was therefore extremely unwelcome. John pulled away, panting, and groaned before wiping his mouth and weakly calling: “Hang on, just a mo…”

“FUCK _OFF!”_ Sherlock roared, his eyes wide with outrage as he flew upright and scrabbled for John’s shoulders. “You’re interrupting very important fellatio!”

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock!” John hissed, undecided whether to give in to an imminent fit of giggles or to hide beneath the covers in abject embarrassment. “For pity’s sake!”

“SHAN'T! WON'T!” Violet’s voice rang out, but she thankfully chose not to come in. “Look, I’m quite sure that John is a complete champion at oral sex; he’s got that look about him. But you’ll want to see this, I promise! You can resume the rumpy-pumpy later. Get your arses down to the kitchen, we’ve got something to show you!”


	18. Chapter 18

It seemed as if Patrick had been given the same abrupt wake-up call as John and Sherlock. As they made their reluctant way down the hall to the wide stone staircase that led to the entrance hall, he emerged from a room further along the corridor shrugging his dressing gown on over a pair of monogrammed green silk pajamas and slippers. His elegantly dishevelled hair swung in a heavy curtain over his face as he tied the cord around his waist, and he paused when he caught sight of John and Sherlock coming towards him. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.” he smiled, straightening up. “Whatever do you think Violet has found? She just knocked on my door and asked me to make my way downstairs as quick as I could, which is why I’m so untidy.”

John, who had merely pulled his discarded pajama bottoms back on and added a thick sweater and socks, privately thought that it was deeply unfair that Patrick’s version of untidy looked like _that_. Some small part of him rather hoped that in order to maintain his appearance Patrick slept in hair curlers and one of those rather terrifying green face masks. Sadly, it did not seem to be the case.

“Haven’t a clue. Gave us a rather rude awakening too, just a minute ago.”

Sherlock looked mutinous, wrapping his wool dressing gown more tightly around his frame. It had only been with extreme reluctance and after he had extracted several frankly obscene promises from John that he had agreed to get out of bed, no matter what Violet had said. “It had better be worth it. I cannot believe she interrupted-“

“Well, let’s get down there and see what she’s found,” John said hastily, leading the way down the hall before Sherlock could finish his sentence. “I could do with a cup of tea anyhow.” 

It was still quite early, and the kitchen was just beginning to fill with warmth from the stove and newly lit fire. Violet was pouring a bowl of milky coffee for Murdy, who was still pink-cheeked from the cold. Snow was slowly melting on her scuffed boots which were lying discarded by the door. She looked up sharply as they entered the room, her face full of barely concealed excitement. 

“Mister Holmes!” she exclaimed. “I know it’s early, but I thought you needed to see it at once.”

“See what, Miss Antonelli?” Sherlock asked, with a barely concealed scowl. He slouched over to where Violet was leaning against the kitchen table and stole her steaming cup of black coffee. “Urgh, why does _nobody_ take sugar any more?”

Violet glared and smacked the back of his head before wrestling the bowl back from him. “Show him, Murdy.”

Murdy swivelled in her chair and bent over to pick something up from the scarred flagstones of the kitchen floor. When she reappeared again from behind the table she was holding a roughly hewn wooden box, hand stencilled with a heraldic device on each side. 

“Figmaleery’s Best Tonic” John read aloud curiously. 

“I went to find your glove this morning,” Murdy explained, carefully placing the rather muddy box on the scrubbed wooden table. “It was next to the tree, near where we went into the water. But when I came further along the path, towards the estate, I saw this stuck in the reeds. It was frozen in place, but I suppose it might have floated down river before it got there - it was pretty far out. I needed to borrow a boat hook and tie a branch to it so I could get the box out of the water.”

Sherlock leaned forward with interest, the grumpiness vanishing from his face. He half-smiled when he looked inside the box. “Ah!”

John joined him next to the table and inhaled sharply. Inside the wooden box, there was a soggy woollen shawl. A small pink bare foot protruded from beneath. 

“It’s alright. It’s just a doll,” he said quickly. (Of course it’s just a bloody doll. You didn’t need to tell anyone that. Anyone can see it’s a bloody doll. It’s shiny plastic. If it was a real baby it wouldn’t still be pink- oh, god. Fucks sake, _breathe._ )

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured. He glanced up at John and frowned slightly at whatever he read in his face, before turning to Murdy. “You haven’t touched this?”

“Of course not.” Murdy said, sounding a little insulted. “I didn’t want to disturb the evidence. I would have left it in the reeds and come to find you first, but I was worried that it might get washed away. There’s been a bit of a thaw this morning.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully and peered more closely at the box. 

“This was meant for Mrs Duncan to find, wasn’t it?” Murdy said, leaning in as well. “Or at least for her to see. In the late afternoon, it’d be dark enough for her to think it was a real baby.”

“Dark enough for her to venture into the water to fetch it,” Sherlock affirmed. “She was so agitated when we saw her, she wouldn’t have thought to hook it out like you did. She would have plunged straight in to save what she imagined was a real child. A child, _cast among the rushes like Moses,_ like the message said.”

“What a filthy trick,” Violet said indignantly. “They clearly wanted the poor woman to go into the water.”

“Yeah,” Murdy nodded. “But look at the box, Miss Vernet. I’m pretty sure I know why they used it.”

“Well, it seems clear that the poisoner was behind this hoax as well…” Patrick mused, sitting down and fishing his glasses from his dressing gown pocket. He leaned towards the box to get a better view. 

“Can we look under the shawl?” Murdy asked. “It’s just…” she tailed off and frowned. “It’s just… I think I know what’s underneath. I mean, that particular doll.”

Sherlock frowned a little, then jumped when Violet noisily snapped on a pair of bright yellow washing-up gloves next to his ear. 

She smiled brightly. “Shall I do the honours?”

Violet carefully lifted the edge of the tattered shawl and folded it back. As expected, it was a child’s toy; a rather worn baby doll dressed in a blue gingham dress. One of its glassy eyes was stuck, and the doll seemed to wink drowsily when Violet uncovered it. 

“It’s fairly lifelike. She would easily have mistaken it for a real baby from a distance.” Violet remarked, carefully picking it up and checking the rest of the box.

“But that’s not the important bit,” Murdy said flatly. “That’s _my_ doll.”

Under their collective stare she glared and blushed slightly. “I mean, not _now._ Obviously. I’m fourteen, I don’t play with dollies any more. But that was my doll. Pheemy had her before me, and the twins played with her a bit too. And no,” Murdy added defiantly, meeting Sherlock’s eye. “They didn’t do this. They’re a pair of scunners, but they wouldn’t. Not to Mrs Duncan. They’re troublemakers, but they’re not _cruel_.”

“So it’s your doll, in a box from tonic that gets sold in your family’s shop.” John mused. 

“And it’s _stupid_ ,” Murdy muttered. “I mean, nobody in my family is a total idiot. If any of us were to do such a thing; we wouldn’t be so bloody _obvious_ about it.”

“You believe that someone is trying to further incriminate your family?” Patrick asked, gazing at the doll curiously. 

Murdy nodded. “Definitely. The police don’t seem to believe that there’s enough evidence to arrest my dad, so I reckon someone wants to add to it.”

“The question is, though-“ John wondered aloud, “-should the other poisoning victims expect a similar incident?”

***

Violet was definitely forgiven for the abrupt way in which she had woken the others; Sherlock pulled up a chair and began to study the box minutely. Murdy leant her chin in her cupped hand and watched him carefully; utterly intent on the way his eyes were darting over the surface and the meticulous way in which he examined the box, shawl and doll. Patrick had wandered off to take a bath and get dressed. John accepted a bowl of coffee from Violet and leant against the stove next to her, letting the heat warm his bones.

“So which do you think would win his attention right now? A plate of pancakes, that bloody box or you offering to resume that _very important-“_

“Vi!” John hissed, elbowing her in the side. He nodded towards Murdy meaningfully.

Violet sighed and grinned, before taking a mouthful of her own coffee. “Oh, all right. _Pas devant les enfants_ and all that.” 

They watched the pair at the table in companionable silence, and John supposed that their attention was much more warranted by the way in which Murdy and Sherlock were sharing space rather than the deductions taking place. Usually, Sherlock would not put up with anyone, except perhaps John, sitting in his personal space as he worked. During the grandstanding, his spectacular reveals – yes, the detective revelled in an audience. He delighted in demonstrating his train of thought, the unlikely mental leaps. But at this stage, when he was staring and quietly muttering to himself, it was highly unusual for him to be content with a near stranger scrutinising him from less than an arms-length away.  
Murdy was clearly listening so hard to every word her face showed the strain. John supposed that Sherlock was a rare breed in a town such as Hilderbogie. If the Reverend Duncan was the nearest thing to a mentor that Murdy had found, no wonder she was enthralled. 

“I can’t believe that it’s New Years Eve already,” Violet remarked, gazing out of one of the small square-paned windows into the snowy grounds. “The last few days seem to have dissolved into a blur of painting and poisoning victims. Patrick and I have actually managed to do some really pretty good work, though. He’s even better than I remembered. At painting, that is. Haven’t had the chance to check other areas of expertise so far.”

“That landscape he’s been working on…” John trailed off. “The one of the grounds outside. It’s… fairly bleak.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Violet agreed thoughtfully. “There’s proper depth to it. Kind of chills the soul, when you look at it. His previous work back in Edinburgh… it was nothing like that. I mean, I always knew he was talented but he was just a bit careless. I never thought he was all that serious about painting – I guessed he was really only studying with me so that he’d have an excuse to vamp it up at night in Edinburgh.”

“He was happier then.” John murmured. “I mean, he’s cheered up a bit since he arrived; but he’s obviously had a rough time of it. I suppose maybe that’s what we saw in the painting. You can sort of feel it, somehow. It feels sort of… lonely.”

“It’s unfortunate, really. One so often produces the best work when troubled or in the utter pits of despair.” Violet said gloomily. “And here I am, cursed with a naturally sunny disposish. A bit more misery and I’d probably have my stuff in the Tate.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mean that.”

“No, you’re right. I bloody don’t” Violet agreed, and poured him some more coffee. “But I think it’s just as well Patrick has his painting at the moment. An artistic outlet is doing him a lot of good, I think. He’s not really the type to pour his heart out. I was surprised he said anything at all to you the other night.”

“I think a few glasses of wine probably helped him along.” John explained. “He seemed a bit embarrassed afterwards.”

“Well maybe the ceilidh tonight will cheer him up a bit.” Violet grinned. “Nobody can be all that depressed while they’re dancing the eightsome reel.”

“Ah. I’d forgotten about that.” John said warily.

“And don’t think for a minute you can get out of it.” Violet said firmly. “It’ll be fun. And surely you wouldn’t begrudge Sherlock the opportunity to dance his little socks off?”

John sighed and nodded after a moment. At least he wouldn’t be expected to dance; it wasn’t as if he even knew any of the steps. 

“He didn’t pack his kilt, did he?” Violet asked innocently, causing John to choke abruptly.

Once he had stopped coughing and mopped his streaming eyes, he gasped: “K-kilt? Sherlock? _Really?”_

“We’re in Scotland, laddie!” Violet giggled, walloping him on the back as his coughing subsided. “He used to go to parties in full highland gear. Most blokes do round here, you know.”

“Pictures. Pictures, Vi. I need to see proof of this.” John said urgently. “You must have pictures.”

“It’s possible I might have one or two, I suppose…” Violet grinned. “Come on. These two will be busy for ages. I’ll leave them the biscuit tin and we’ll go take a look at the old albums, shall we?”


	19. Chapter 19

Pale broad beams of light were edging their way through the narrow windows of the stone staircase as Violet led John towards the library. It was on on the top floor of Hilderbogie and he hadn’t visited this level of the building before. He looked around with interest – somehow the top floor seemed to speak strongly of Violet’s character. Unlike the stern portraits that lined the walls downstairs, there were several large modern paintings hanging in the corridor, their blurred shapes and hard lines catching his eye irresistibly. He paused at one that hung over a low gilt and marble table and frowned at the canvas; a rocky seascape, overhung with stormy skies. There were indistinct figures in the foreground, almost lost among the long tangled grass of a cliff. There was something unmistakeably dark about the mood, in the way that the teal waves seethed and the light filtered through low hanging clouds.

“These are all of yours, aren’t they?” John asked, stepping back so that he could take in the painting as a whole. Violet nodded, pressing her lips together as she slipped her hands into the pockets of her electric blue dress. She rocked back on her heels. 

“Mm. I painted these a long time ago, back when I lived here full time. My style’s changed a bit since then; well done you for recognising them.”

“You haven’t signed any of them.” John commented, scanning the edges of the heavy unvarnished frame. 

Violet smirked slightly. “I suppose you could say that old habits die hard. I sign my work these days, but I never used to. Not back then. I never intended to sell these, anyhow – so I never much saw the point. This is the only bit of the house that ever really felt _mine_ , you see. I did this one shortly after Felicia died. I ‘spose I felt a bit adrift, it was just me and Robert left in the house then. Sherry was gone too – I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I wasn’t able to get out and about much, because I was still a bit tattered round the edges. It was Robert who suggested it, actually. He saw me scribbling in the margins of my notebook one day when we were having breakfast, and suggested I get out my paints again.”

“Did you get on well with him?” John asked, wandering a little further down the hall so that he could take in the next canvas. This one was of a patch of snowy woodland, the peeling trunks of tall silver birches gleaming through evening light. Again, it gave John a rather uneasy feeling. The trees were towering, outlined with sharp black lines as they disappeared overhead. There was no sign of life in the scene, but oddly it made him feel like there was someone waiting among the woods, just out of his line of sight.

Violet dug around in her pocket for her monogrammed silver case, and took a moment to light one of her black and gold cigarettes. She frowned thoughtfully at the painting and sighed a little. 

“We got on well after Felicia died. Robert and I never spent all that much time together before then. I don’t think she would have liked us getting all that chummy. She twigged early on that I had a bit of a past, even though she never knew the details. She was sharp as tacks, that woman. I think in another life we could have been friends; but she never trusted me enough for that. Robert was a clever one, too; but in a gentler sort of way. He’d gotten so lonely in the last years of his life. He’d become less and less mobile and wasn’t able to get around without help. And losing Sherry was so terrible for him; apart from a few years when Sherry was younger they’d always lived together. I think we were both a bit starved for company in the end. I used to read to him in the evenings. Bloody Thackeray, but Robert loved him so much I put up with it. He was a demon at backgammon; I only managed to beat him one game out of five. He was a fucking _beautiful_ photographer. We used to have slide shows of pictures from his travels all over the world.” Violet half smiled, at some fleeting memory. “We were halfway through bloody _Vanity Fair_ when he died. Never had the heart to finish it, after then.”

She shrugged a little awkwardly, cupping her left elbow in her right hand. She blew a great plume of dark smoke towards the ceiling and spun abruptly on her heel. “Come on, rotten article. You wanted to see these photos, didn’t you?”

“Oh god yes,” John agreed, following her smartly down the hallway towards the large stone arch that led to the library. Up a couple of worn granite steps and a few steps round a sharp corner brought them into a series of irregular shaped rooms, the walls lined floor to ceiling with beautifully carved glass-fronted shelves. A worn leather sofa and a club chair stood on either side of a small, unlit fireplace and a broad map table occupied most of one corner. John crossed the faded Persian carpet and peered out of one of the high arched windows, taking in the birds-eye view of the grounds below. “We’re in one of the towers!”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Violet agreed, a gleam in her eye. “And this is just the beginning of it. It goes up another two floors. I nearly had a conniption the first time I came in here. Bibliophilic pornography of the first order. It’s a miracle I managed to restrain myself from proposing to Sherry on the first day we met. He interviewed me in this room.”

“And that was before you even found out about the Mesopotamian wax seals?” John asked, peering into one of the cases and taking in the hand-tooled leather bindings of a series of alchemical works.

“I’d heard _rumours_ about the Mesopotamian wax seals,” Violet grinned, hitching up the tight skirt of her dress and scaling a tall sliding ladder. “The cuneiform tablets and the Ayurvedic manuscripts were a complete surprise though. Mm, let’s see… I think they’re up here somewhere…” she kicked sharply against the nearby wall, causing the ladder to rapidly glide several feet along the shelves. It came to a halt in front of a series of deep brown calfskin albums. “Let’s see… ’95… ‘96… should be in here I reckon…”

She grasped the spine and pulled it out carefully, dangling precariously from the top step with one hand and passing the album to John below. “Haven’t looked at these in years. What fun!”

John stretched up on tiptoe and caught the album, holding the ladder steady as Violet descended. “Avert your eyes from my stocking tops, you cad!” she grinned, sliding nimbly down the steps and landing on the carpet with a faint thud. She wriggled her skirt back down her thighs again, and took a seat at one end of the sofa. 

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of looking at your stocking tops, Vi.” John murmured, opening the album eagerly. He glanced up at her and grinned. “If I did, I think we would have heard Sherlock exploding with rage in the kitchen, even from here.”

John took a seat next to her and opened the front cover, which was heavy and beautifully accented in silver gilt. The first thick cream leaf was protected by a layer of filmy tissue, which he carefully lifted to reveal a snapshot of Sherlock’s father and a tall, rather nattily dressed man on the front steps of Hilderbogie House. The resemblance between the older man and Sherlock was marked. He had carefully arranged dark curly hair and sharp cheekbones, although John doubted Sherlock would ever consider wearing a silk paisley cravat. 

“That’s Sherry, isn’t it?” he asked, studying the photo with interest. Violet leant against his shoulder and smiled reminiscently at the image. 

“Yeah, that’s him. That was the day we announced our engagement. Sherlock wasn’t here that day; he was away at school. Eugenia and Siger came up for the weekend and we thought it was as good a time as any to break the news.”

“How did they take it?” 

“Well, they weren’t doing cartwheels.” Violet shrugged. “But they wouldn’t have interfered in Sherry’s business. I mean, they _knew_ that he didn’t have an eye for the ladies. It was obvious that we were getting married for our own reasons.”

John turned the page, taking in photographs of the workers on the estate and various social events. He spied a photo of Mr. Brodie among a group of men in the stableyard, his hair dishevelled and his flannel shirt half unbuttoned. Violet wolf-whistled and grinned at the picture. “Our Mr. Brodie has always been a bit of alright, hasn’t he? No wonder Mycroft-“

“Violet, we are not going to discuss the Eulalie incident. I’m still slightly mentally scarred from when Sherlock told me about it.” John said firmly, turning another page. Sherlock’s grandparents were in many of the pictures; Felicia was small but seemed to be making up for it with ramrod posture and a curiously rigid chignon of gleaming silver hair. Despite his wheelchair, Robert looked like a tall, lanky man. He had the familiar deep-set green eyes and his hands were beautifully shaped even in old age, resting on the blanket that covered his knees. The couple were pictured in front of a massive Christmas tree in the front hall; on the lawn; at a village fete and finally surrounded by an array of smartly dressed relatives on the steps of Hilderbogie House. 

There at the centre of the group, just to the right of Felicia stood Violet. John heard her hum reminiscently and lean in a little closer. 

“Gosh, look at me. Pretty damn dishy, even if I do say so myself…” 

John couldn’t argue. In the photo Violet was beaming, hand in hand with Sherry who was glancing down at her fondly. And her face in the image was a very different face to the one he was used to, without the broad scars that spread across Violet’s right temple and cheekbone. Her eyes were slightly narrowed due to her smile, but he could tell that they were both blue. She wore a stunning dress in a pale greenish grey silk, a bouquet of deep pink snapdragons dangling carelessly from her left hand. 

“It feels like a lifetime ago, now.” Violet said thoughtfully. “I mean, Christ- the things we do when we’re twenty, eh? Ever feel like you want to take your younger self aside and just give them a damn good talking to?”

“You mean, you wouldn’t do it again?” John asked curiously. 

“I’m not sure, really.” Violet mused, after a moment. She kicked off her scarlet alligator pumps and curled her legs up on the sofa comfortably. “I mean, it’s the whole trousers of time business; isn’t it? Who knows where I’d have ended up if I hadn’t married Sherry? But I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Marrying a raging homosexual more than twice my age and coming to live in this old pile just for the sake of getting my hands on some cash and access to some interesting collections? Perhaps not the ideal path to take. Oh, hang on! Look, there’s the blithering git!”

She pointed out a slightly blurred figure in the bottom left of the frame. It looked as if Sherlock was attempting to sneak out of the photograph, his shoulders hunched as he was caught mid-sidle down the bottom step. John stared, taking in the gangling youth with dishevelled hair. He was wearing a smart suit without a tie, although he looked deeply uncomfortable in it. His dark curls were tucked behind his left ear, but the right half of his face was nearly obscured where they swung loose and unruly. His face was blurry but John could see the impatient expression nonetheless. He felt his own mouth slide into a smile of recognition. To Sherlock’s right, he spied an exasperated Mycroft with one hand a little outstretched – no doubt attempting to catch hold of his brothers’ arm before he ruined the picture. 

“That was the day you two met, wasn’t it?” John asked curiously. 

“Mm. In this very room, in fact. The little swine was smoking in here and I gave him what-for. Despicable tick.” Violet grinned, glancing over at one of the wide window seats. “He redeemed himself somewhat afterwards, though, by filching champagne and cake from the kitchen. We spent most of the night playing terrible records, chatting and getting a bit squiffed. Definitely a more interesting wedding night than the one I had expected.”

Several more pages of wedding photographs followed. Shots of guests dancing in the great hall; raising their glasses in a toast to Violet and Sherry; one notable image of a much younger and slightly plumper Mycroft directing a hard stare at her from the edge of a family group. Violet half-laughed at this. “He was like a dog with a bone as soon as he met me. I reckon he started digging into my past the second he got back to Whitehall. Oh, look – Felicia’s giving me the evil eye in this one too! You can see the family resemblance there, can’t you?”

After the wedding photographs ended, there was a scattering of pictures of a family day at the beach. Violet and Sherry presenting flowers and some kind of trophy at the local school, surrounded by cheering children. A distant shot of Violet rowing alone on the river, her hair blazing copper in late afternoon sunlight. And then:

“Oh, look – there he is! This was the first time he managed to come back up, after the wedding. It was his summer holidays, after he’d finished his last term at school. It’s a bloody miracle he finished that year at all – I’m surprised that he didn’t turn up sooner.”

“Why?” John asked absently, staring at the photo of a teenage Sherlock sitting under a tree. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a frayed sweater, his face set in concentration as he read a large volume. He was surrounded by sheets of paper and writing implements, obviously deep in thought as he worried one of his ragged cuffs between his teeth. John couldn't help staring at the boy that Sherlock had once been.

“Oh, long story. He had a bit of a run in with some git in his class,” Violet said vaguely, and tapped her gleaming red fingernail at the bottom of the picture. “This was around when he decided to try and replicate some of the alchemical techniques, the great muggins. His grandmother nearly sent him home after the horse urine explosion in his bedroom.”

John fervently thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock’s days of dabbling in the alchemical arts appeared to be long behind him. 

Another picture, this time of Violet and Sherlock together on a sunny afternoon. Violet was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and reclined in a striped deck-chair with a sketchbook in her lap. Sherlock was hunched on the grass, wearing shorts and a washed out t-shirt; his long legs startlingly bare and his knees alarmingly knobbly. In the picture he was looking up at Violet as he rolled a cigarette. He was unsmiling but his expression was unmistakeably unguarded, his attention utterly committed to whatever Violet was in the middle of telling him. Neither figure seemed aware of the photographer. They seemed to be in their own private world.

“Oh… we’re getting into winter. You’re in for a treat, old fruit!” Violet said, flicking a few pages ahead. “Party season!”

And there he was, John mused as he took in the scene. He had been looking forward to seeing Sherlock in a kilt as he had expected it to look incongruous or just plain silly. But somehow… it just _wasn’t._ Of course, it was common enough in Scotland to see men in kilts; he had seen several on the streets of Edinburgh back in October and after the first double take it somehow became normal. They were just an alternative to a smart pair of trousers, after all. He knew better than to think of kilts as skirts; whenever he saw men wearing them they seemed to be worn with a defiantly masculine swagger. But Sherlock in a kilt… the thought was just plain bizarre. Or at least it had been, until he saw him in the crowded hall full of dancers. It was a hasty shot, some of the figures blurred in motion. Sherlock was standing to one side, raising a glass to his mouth as he surveyed the room. He was wearing a well-cut dark jacket and waistcoat over a sharply pleated tartan kilt that hung in a frankly _provocative_ way from his hips. The photograph had been taken as he moved slightly, and there was a slight flare to the heavy wool as he turned; revealing a small white flash of thigh. His face was carefully bored in the photo, but his eyes were sharp as he studied the swirling dancers in front of him. John felt his mouth go dry and his face grew a trifle warm.

“Mmm… I had to cut his hair for him before we went out. He was beginning to look a bit like some kind of collie dog by then,” Violet commented, and turned the page. In the next photo Sherlock was dancing himself, grasping the hand of a pink-cheeked girl as they spun between a long line of guests. The dark, almost indigo blue tartan was swirling as he moved and his dark hair was sticking slightly to his forehead with sweat. He was grinning; not at his partner but at Violet who was dancing with Sherry a little further down the row of people. She was laughing hard, her hair falling down messily over her shoulders as she turned. John caught sight of Felicia nearby, her face unsmiling as she stared at Violet. In fact, several people were staring at Violet in the photo and John could hardly blame them. She was unarguably beautiful, but what captured his attention was the sheer glee in her face; the vitality in the way she was throwing herself into the dance. She looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world. 

“I felt safe there, you see.” Violet said thoughtfully, reading his thoughts as usual. “Probably for the first time in years. Maybe for the first time ever. And I’d made this mad friend, who didn’t want anything from me but my company. I couldn’t quite believe my luck. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a better situation than I’d ever been in. I was so relieved. And happy, really. It didn’t last, of course; but those couple of years were the best ones I’d ever had in my life til then.”

“He looks happy there, too.” John mused. “Look at him.”

“I think he was.” Violet agreed. “This place was a bit of a haven for both of us. School was a bit rubbish for him, as you can imagine. He didn’t have to try to be anyone else up here.”

“He’s never told me about his schooldays. He says he’s deleted them.”

“And I reckon you’ve drawn your own conclusions about the kind of schooldays someone like Sherlock had.” Violet said drily. “I’m not sure they’re anything he’d fancy dwelling on.”

John turned the page, taking in photo after photo of the party. It seemed to be in the church hall in Hilderbogie village, a six piece band playing on a small stage. The dancers seemed to be getting more and more dishevelled as time went on. In the last photo, Sherlock was flushed and sweating as he leaned against Violet’s shoulder next to a refreshment table covered with bottles and glasses. Violet was whispering something in his ear, her eyes narrowed as she watched something just out of frame. There was something so conspiratorial in the way they were positioned, John felt almost like a voyeur as he looked at the photo. 

“What were you up to?” he asked curiously, glancing up at Violet. 

She grinned, a little sheepishly. “That was right before Sherlock pick-pocketed the provost. We were having a competition, you see. It’s remarkably easy to rob someone in the middle of a ceilidh.”

“Who won?” 

“Oh me, of course. I’d had a lot more practice than him.” Violet said cheerfully. “Although I helped Sherlock refine his technique considerably. I got eleven purses and wallets before midnight; and he only got seven. We didn’t _keep_ them,” she added a little defensively when she saw John’s expression. “It was just for fun. We dropped them all in the church collection box afterwards. I must say, it takes a particular sort of skill to rob a man’s wallet from his sporran.”

John blinked. “I imagine it does.”

“I hardly ever rob anyone anymore.” Violet said firmly. “And only if they deserve it.”

“Right.” John turned another page. “Blimey, look at Sherlock’s gran. I don’t think I’d have liked to have faced her over the breakfast table every morning.”

“Mmph. She does have a face like a smacked arse there, alright.” Violet agreed, peering at Felicia. “Admittedly, we had just pickpocketed her as well. That was just after Sherlock had decided to try dressing a bit less like a tramp. Scrubbed up well, didn’t he?”

“He’s only about nineteen there. Does it sound too pervy if I say _cor_?” John laughed, blushing. In the next picture, Sherlock was dancing with an extremely pretty dark-haired girl whom he was possibly twirling a little too forcefully by the way the hem of her dress was spinning.

“Well, you weren’t the only one who’d started saying that when they saw him.” Violet commented. “Look at poor Maggie Horsburgh there, she’s practically drooling. I don’t think he ever noticed she was alive.”

“Well some things never change…”John remarked drily. “Where’s Mycroft? Didn’t he ever come to these parties?”

“Laddie, can you really imagine Mycroft _dancing?_ ” Violet asked incredulously. “I mean, I’ve got a bloody good imagination, and that’s beyond mine.”

The sound of rapidly approaching feet suddenly became apparent, coming along the corridor towards them. “John!”

“Yes, alright, I’m here!” John called, taking a last curious glance at the album. He was reluctant to close it; feeling as if he had just been granted a brief glimpse into an alternate universe.


	20. Chapter 20

“John, we need to go into the village at once,” Sherlock called, appearing in the carved stone doorway of the library. The detective had taken the time to throw on some clothes before coming in search of John, and he was still buttoning his shirt cuffs as he entered the room. He paused briefly and frowned as he took in the album on John’s lap, but didn’t comment on the photograph on display. 

John reflexively glanced down at the picture of Sherlock and Violet, and felt a little shifty. Sherlock so rarely volunteered information about his younger days that it suddenly felt a bit underhand to have gone looking for it. His hands tightened on the leather cover and he closed the album carefully. He pushed it into Violet’s hands without looking. 

“What are we looking for in the village?” John asked casually, getting to his feet. “You’ll need to give me a few minutes to get dressed first – can’t really go tramping through the snow in my pajamas.”

Sherlock’s gaze still rested on the album in Violet’s hand and it took him a moment to reply, somewhat distractedly: “The doll. We need to find out how it got into the poisoners hands; and that will involve talking to the younger Antonelli girls, unfortunately.”

“Oh, wee Pruny and Rab aren’t that bad…” Violet grinned, stretching out on the sofa comfortably. “Alright, somewhat devious and occasionally downright felonious. But rather good fun, nonetheless…”

“Want to come with us, Vi?” John asked. 

“Mmm, might catch up with you later. Patrick said he wanted to get back to his painting; and I’ve been painting him while he’s been working on his landscape. I do need one or two things from the village shop, and I wouldn’t mind saying hello to Hector.”

“Very well.” Sherlock said dismissively, and turned on his heel. “Come along, John.”

***

Despite the minor thaw of the morning, snow had begun to fall lightly again by the time Sherlock, John and Murdy began their walk back towards Hilderbogie Village. Murdy walked a little way ahead, kicking at snowdrifts with her large black boots. She was evidently deep in thought. 

It wasn’t long until they were crossing the slushy cobbles of the village square, heading towards Antonelli’s grocery. As they passed Jameson’s pub, John noticed one set of shutters opening and then slamming shut abruptly as they made their way past. Making sure that Murdy was still walking ahead, he surreptitiously aimed a single finger salute towards Mr. Jameson, who was no doubt glowering at them from inside the pub.

Rab and Pruny Antonelli were still in their pajamas, reading and eating toast at the long wooden table in the Antonelli’s kitchen. Hector sat in an armchair next to the stove, engrossed in a crossword puzzle in the local newspaper. He looked considerably better than he had done on their previous visit; although John supposed that this might have been partially due to the fact that Pheemy was not present to flap around him and swaddle him with blankets. He looked up in surprise over the rim of his glasses and smiled. 

“There you are, pet!” he exclaimed, watching Murdy wriggle out of her coat. She discarded it over the back of one of the unoccupied kitchen chairs, before dropping a brusque kiss on his head by way of greeting. “You were certainly up early today. And good morning to you gentlemen,” he added, getting to his feet and shaking hands with Sherlock and then John. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Black, two sugars please.” Sherlock replied, unwinding his scarf and pulling out a chair without ceremony. He turned to face the twins, who were eyeing him with considerable interest. John rolled his eyes and accepted the offer with a little more grace. Hector merely grinned and reached for a large aluminium espresso pot that lay in pieces on the draining board.

“How’s the detecting going, Mister Holmes?” Pruny asked, tucking her slightly grubby bare feet up onto the chair beneath her, swallowing a last mouthful of jam-laden toast. She put down her well-thumbed copy of Suetonius’ _Life of Tiberius_ on the table and grinned. “Decided to take Murdy on as an apprentice yet?”

“You shut your mouth!” Murdy snapped, without looking up from unlacing her boots. Through the dishevelled curtain of her dark hair, John thought he saw her blushing scarlet and winced a little in sympathy.

Sherlock ignored this exchange entirely, to John’s relief. He gave Pruny a hard stare. “Are you missing one of your dolls, Miss Antonelli?”

“Dolls?!” Rab exclaimed, with an indignant look. “We dinnae play with _dolls_. We’re _twelve!_ ”

“And I thought you dealt with big serious crimes, not missing dollies. Times a bit hard, Mister Holmes?” 

“Pruny!” Hector Antonelli remonstrated. “Try and be a bit more polite to the gentlemen, for pity’s sakes!”

Pruny huffed and subsided somewhat. “What doll are you talking about?”

“My old one. Petunia.” Murdy said, finally kicking off her boots and nudging them into a pile of discarded wellingtons and plimsolls next to the door. “Pheemy had her first. _I_ didn’t call her that!” she added sternly, turning to John and Sherlock as if she wanted to make this point very clear.

“Ah, _Petunia!_ ” Rab exclaimed. “Last time I saw her we’d swapped her for the baby Jesus in the nativity scene. That was last Christmas, though; not this one.”

“No, we’ve had her since then, remember?” Pruny disagreed. “After Miss Argyle told us off and drop kicked Petunia out of the manger. We were going to make her into a zombie baby for Halloween, weren’t we? But we forgot. I dunno where she got to.”

“Where who got to?” Petty called, coming down the stairs at the far end of the kitchen. She nodded good morning at Sherlock and John before accepting a steaming cup of coffee from her father. She was still in her dressing gown and her shoulder length dark hair was sticking out in all directions.

“Petunia. Mister Famous Detective here has decided to branch out and look for knackered toys instead of catching murderers and thieves an’ such!” Rab explained, and ducked with practiced ease as Petty attempted to flick her ear in reproach.

“Well I know where she ended up,” Petty exclaimed. “She got given to the parish jumble sale a few weeks ago. It took me bloody ages to wipe off the bloody moustache and horns that you’d drawn on her!”

“Hey! That was ours!” Pruny said indignantly.

“I thought you two were too big and grown up to be playing with dollies?” Hector asked mildly.

“There’s still no call to be giving our stuff away to jumble sales without asking first.” Rab insisted darkly. “So you damn well better stay away from Big Ted, Petty.”

“Who is in charge of the jumble sales?” Sherlock interjected, before a full-scale row broke out. 

Petty shrugged. “The WI usually sort it out. People drop old stuff into their meeting hall and they have a big rummage sale every couple of months or so. Mrs. Duncan’s head of the WI, so she’s technically in charge of the sales, I suppose. What’s all the interest in the doll anyhow?”

“Murdy found it along the riverbank,” John said, then paused. He guessed that the rest of the Antonelli’s, except perhaps the absent Griz, still had no idea about her adventure of the night before. The repressive look on her face made it clear that she didn’t want them to know about it. 

“I found Doctor Watson’s missing glove on the riverbank this morning, and I was bringing it back to him when I found Petunia.” Murdy broke in, her tone calm. “She was in a tonic box, in the reeds near Miss Vernet’s house.”

“Mrs. Duncan fell into the river last night, after receiving some kind of message about a lost child along the river bank. It was clearly designed for her to see; although she ended up in the water before she discovered it.” Sherlock elaborated, evidently deciding not to reveal Murdy’s role in Mrs. Duncan’s rescue. “She was taken back to hospital in Aberdeen last night.”

“Oh lord…a tonic box?” Hector asked, his eyes widening. “Not a-“

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock confirmed. “A wooden box from Figmaleery’s distillery. Identical, in fact, to the ones delivered to your shop, Mr. Antonelli.”

Hector turned a little pale, and sat down rather suddenly. The twins subsided somewhat, and Rab crossed the kitchen to lean against his shoulder; a furious look on her slightly jam-smeared face.

“Who the hell wants to drop us in it so much?!” Petty spat, slamming her coffee cup down on the kitchen table so hard that the contents splattered messily across the scrubbed wood. “Is it that bastard peeping Jameson? Dad told us what he’s been up to. I’d’ve been straight round to the police station to report him by now if it wasn’t for the fact that it’d be Dalziell I’d be dealing with.”

“No, he’s too much of a coward,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Whoever did this is ruthless and calculating. They intended Mrs. Duncan to end up in the river, and didn’t care whether it killed her or not. Their intention, it would seem, is to incriminate at least one member of your family.”

“I hate this.” Mr. Antonelli said quietly. “I really do. I can’t stand that someone despises me so much that they’ll do such things. Poor Mrs. Duncan, is she going to be alright?”

“We haven’t heard any news since early this morning. The last we heard, she’s still not conscious,” John supplied. “Do you think that the box could have come from here, Mr. Antonelli?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Hector replied weakly. “We only get one or two boxes of tonic at a time, and the company takes back the empty ones when they deliver a new batch. They’re kept in the cellar once we’ve taken the bottles out and put them on the shelf.”

“It can’t have come from us,” Petty said firmly. “I was tidying up in the cellar yesterday and the box from this months delivery was still down there.”

“Who would have known that the doll came from this family?” Sherlock asked, stirring some extra sugar into his coffee before downing half the cup in one swallow.

“Anyone could, really. It’s been around for years,” Petty said gloomily, and glared at the twins. “Most of the town saw it when this pair decided to pull their “Antichrist in the manger” stunt last year.”

“Well how were we to know that Petunia was going to be used for luring ministers wives into freezing rivers?!” Pruny complained. “That’s hardly _our_ fault!”

“We know, pet.” her father replied, and sighed. “But I suppose that’s it, isn’t it? This will be enough for them to arrest me now.”

Murdy’s head snapped up; her face appalled. She threw an imploring glance at Sherlock and John, her thin fingers knotted in her lap.

“Oh, I don’t see that we need to inform anyone about this,” Sherlock said dismissively, without meeting her gaze. “It’s not as if Mrs. Duncan even saw the box or the doll; she fell into the water before she found it. I’m quite sure that there was a message for her somewhere in her house or over the phone directing her towards the river; but the box and doll have no real relevance.”

Mr. Antonelli swallowed hard, looking conflicted. “I do thank you for that, Mister Holmes. But don’t you think it should be turned over to the police anyhow, for evidence?”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly. Do you really think that the Aberdeen constabulary will make proper use of it? They clearly haven’t made any headway with the case so far; it’s the holidays and it appears that they are in no hurry to bring the matter to a close.”

“We’ll give them to the police if we don’t make any more progress in the next day or two,” John lied, seeing Hector’s worried face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Murdy’s shoulders relax slightly. “But there’s no point just yet, really.”

Sherlock got to his feet and drained the remains of his coffee and looked expectantly at John. “Well, come along then John! Time to visit the WI. I hope you’re more amenable to inspecting knitted tea cosies this time.”

“Onwards to jam and Jerusalem, then.” John said drily, shrugging on his coat. He caught Murdy’s eye, and suppressed a smile. She was practically vibrating with interest. “Care to join us, Murdy?”

***

“So, you saw the mud on the box, right?” Murdy asked, as soon as the door of the grocery slammed shut behind them. “There was a bit that hadn’t washed off the base and on one of the corners?”

Sherlock gave her a sidelong glance. “You know perfectly well that I did. What conclusion did you reach about it, though, Miss Antonelli?” 

Murdy hesitated briefly, seeming a little reluctant to volunteer an opinion in the face of Sherlock’s challenge. After a moment or two, however, she plucked up her courage. “It wasn’t mud from the riverbank. Or, at least it wasn’t all from the riverbank. There were some sandy bits mixed in with the mud; but they weren’t river sand. Because the river sand is greyish round here. The sand on the mud on the box was reddish.”

“Which tells us what, Miss Antonelli?” Sherlock persisted, coming to a halt. His eyes didn’t leave her face for a moment. John watched interestedly as Murdy tucked her chin into the collar of her coat, frowning up at the detective. 

“It’s not proper sand. It’s brick dust. You’ve seen most of the buildings round here. They’re stone, granite mostly. There’s only a couple of buildings in Hilderbogie made from red brick. One of them’s the post office; and the other’s the police station.” She rocked back on her heels, digging her hands deeper into her pockets. “The post-office has had some repairs to the chimneys recently. I reckon that box was somewhere round there, for a while anyway. Not in our shop.” 

“The post office is right next to the hall where the WI meet, isn’t it?” John pointed out. “We passed it yesterday.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, letting his gaze rest on Murdy’s pale, slightly pinched face for a moment longer. She held his stare for a second or two before abruptly turning away and marching ahead towards the village bowling green and the headquarters of the Womens Institute, keeping her eyes on the slushy path ahead. 

***

The bowling club hall where the Womens Institute met turned out to be firmly locked. According to the notice-board next to the door it would remain closed until the following Tuesday due to the Hogmanay holidays. After a sidelong glance at the neighbouring houses, Murdy sidled down the alley between the hall and the red brick post office. She pushed open a dilapidated wooden gate that was overgrown with snowy ivy and held it open for John and Sherlock, who followed swiftly on her heels. 

The alley was small and cramped, overshadowed by the buildings on either side. Unlike the rest of Hilderbogie, there was snow on the ground as well as an abundance of mud and slush. The narrow space had been sheltered somewhat by scaffolding and nets that had been erected around the ornate chimneys of the post office. There was a rather messy, neglected air to the alley and there were a few near-overflowing dustbins and a scattering of papers and rubbish gathering in corners. Sherlock looked around intently, pacing the alleyway and peering into the windows on both sides. 

The post office was dark and shuttered, but Murdy was able to tell them that the doorway led into the postal sorting room. “The postmistress, Miss Butters, she’s been away the last week. She goes over to her family in Bute for Christmas every year. The place will have been locked up tight since Christmas eve, I reckon.”

“But not the hall on the other side.” Sherlock stated, staring through the window into the small kitchen. “Someone has watered that aspidistra plant on the sill within the last twenty four hours.”

“D’you see the dust here?” Murdy asked, pointing at one of the messier corners near the door into the post-office. There was a very faint scattering of reddish debris on the half-melted snow. “It’s getting blown down off the repairs. It’s snowed loads since the builders cleared off for the holidays. But it still keeps coming down, cause they haven’t smoothed off the bits of the chimney they’ve replaced. There’s layers of it in the snow and ice, like strata.”

John brushed off the snow on the doorstep to the bowling club hall and took a seat, content to watch Sherlock and Murdy. He chafed his gloved hands and repressed a smile as Sherlock leant over the patch of snow in question, studying it intently. Murdy stood back a little to allow him access, attempting nonchalance but clearly aching to impress. As John watched, her thin hands moved and she clasped them behind her back. He doubted she even noticed the way she was mirroring Sherlock’s posture.

“What else do you see?” Sherlock asked suddenly, turning to look at her. It was clearly a challenge.

Murdy swallowed hard and nodded at the snow. “You can tell there’s been something there, during the snowfall. The layers of dust aren’t even; they’ve been interrupted by something that sat there while it snowed. Otherwise the stripes of red would be unbroken; but there’s a gap where something sat for a couple of days.”

Sherlock smiled at her faintly. “Good. What else?”

“It’s… it’s about the size of the tonic box?” Murdy faltered, and bit her lip. Sherlock looked at her expectantly, then sighed. 

“We can determine the timeframe in which the box was sitting in this alley, Miss Antonelli,” he explained. “We can do that by comparing the number of times it has snowed against the number of layers of brick dust.”

“Oh.” Murdy said quietly, subdued. Her fingers unknotted behind her back and slowly slipped into her pockets. 

John watched as her shoulders drooped, and glared meaningfully at Sherlock. The detective frowned in confusion, first at John and then at Murdy, who had turned away swiftly to study the rubbish bins and presumably to hide her disappointment and embarrassment. 

_”Say ‘Well done’, you git!”_ John mouthed behind her back, pointing at Murdy. Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively at John, turning to look at the bins himself. 

John glared at Sherlock’s back, and Murdy turned just in time to catch sight of his mime of strangling the detective. She gave him a slightly concerned look, but didn’t comment.

“So you think that the box came from the hall, and what, got put out with the rest of the rubbish?” John asked awkwardly, getting to his feet and looking around.

“These bins contain a variety of empty bags and cardboard boxes.” Sherlock commented, blithely emptying out the contents onto the ground. “As well as a selection of broken crockery, damaged toys and torn clothing.”

“Stuff that’s been donated, but not good enough to sell.” Murdy interjected. “And the bags that they were delivered in.”

“So the box was probably used to carry items for a jumble sale.” John interjected. “The question is, who brought it?”

“No, not the question.” Sherlock murmured, studying the mess he had created. “Or rather, not the only question. But the first question is who picked it up out of the snow to use it to lure Mrs. Duncan into the water.”

“I suppose anyone could have picked it up. It’s not like this place is hard to get into.” John commented. 

“But Petunia came from inside the hall,” Murdy said, standing on tiptoe to peer through the window of the hall. “She wasn’t broken, and she would have been in good enough condition to be sold once Petty had cleaned the marker off her face. There hasn’t been a jumble sale since the end of November though – so Petunia will have been in there since Petty donated her.”

“So it was a member of the WI who did it?” John asked, realisation dawning. 

“I think that we can surmise which member of the Womens Institute has a particular dislike for your family, Miss Antonelli.” Sherlock commented, watching as Murdy’s face darkened. 

“That old bitch Miss Argyle!” she spat, and without another word she turned and sprinted out of the alley.


	21. Chapter 21

“But why?!” John panted as he and Sherlock chased Murdy along the streets. “They’re _friends_! Mrs Duncan said so! At…at the hospital!”

Sherlock didn’t answer, cursing as he slipped slightly on the snowy cobbles. John grasped his forearm and hauled him up before he hit the ground. 

“Murdy!” John shouted, watching the girl running through the snow ahead. “Murdy, wait!”

She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore his plea. Murdy was clearly heading towards Miss Argyle’s neat little cottage near the schoolhouse and John didn’t much like to think what she was planning on doing once she got there. She was clearly more experienced at running through snow than they were; she was making rapid progress along the street. 

The few passers-by she encountered stopped and stared as she pounded past, her long hair streaming behind her as she ran. 

Within a minute Murdy had reached Miss Argyle’s beautifully painted garden gate and she kicked at it viciously with her heavy black boot. The fancy wrought iron gate flew open and rebounded, the powdery snow on the adjoining fence exploding outward with the impact. Murdy stamped up the snowy path, pausing to violently kick over a few of the meticulously arranged garden gnomes before approaching the front steps. She was shaking with rage as she raised her fist and hammered on the deep pink wooden door. 

It shook on its hinges as Murdy pounded. 

“GET OUT HERE THIS MINUTE, YOU EVIL COW!” she yelled, kicking the door for good measure. “WAIT TIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU!”

“Murdy!” John called, finally catching up and grabbing her hand before she broke a bone. “You’ve got to calm down a bit!”

Murdy wrenched her hand back and he was startled to see that there were angry tears pouring down her face. “How could she do that? Not just to my dad, but to poor Mrs. Duncan too?!”

“She’s not here,” Sherlock observed, peering around the garden disinterestedly. “The curtains are drawn and there are no lights showing.”

“What the hell is going on?” said a familiar, slightly amused voice from the direction of the gate. “Honestly, I could hear the commotion from halfway down the street!”

Violet stood in the snow, bundled up in an extravagantly flared cobalt blue coat, a white fur hat on her beautifully arranged curls. A bulging paper bag from Antonelli’s grocery hung from the crook of her elbow. Her suede gloved hands rested on her hips, and her face fell when she caught sight of Murdy’s distraught expression. 

“Oh hell, what’s happened?” she asked, rushing up the path and peering into Murdy’s face. John noticed that she didn’t lay a hand on the upset girl, merely holding out her arm until Murdy decided to grasp it by herself. 

“That fucking Argyle bitch!” Murdy said, through gritted teeth. She dashed away her tears furiously with her free hand. “She did it! She’s been out to get us for bloody _years!_ ”

“Christ!” Violet muttered, glancing at Sherlock surreptitiously for confirmation. “Look, Murdy. I fully appreciate that homicide seems like the best course of action right now. But you’ll only get into hot water if you do, and it’ll make life bloody awkward for your dad having a jailbird for a daughter. Besides, the food is atrocious and the outfits are dire. There are better ways to get out of Hilderbogie, believe me.”

“She’s got to pay!” Murdy hissed, her eyes wild. “She’s _got_ to!”

“She will.” John said firmly. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“She certainly will,” Sherlock agreed. “But Violet is right, Miss Antonelli. If you killed Miss Argyle, it would be difficult for us to provide a convincing alibi for you. Several people saw you on your way here and the fact that you have already committed some malicious damage in her garden is somewhat suspicious.”

“But seeing as how you’ve already smashed a couple of those bloody gnomes….” Violet mused thoughtfully, taking a quick look up and down the quiet street. “Come on… let’s have a go at these rotten little squirrel ornaments too.”

 

***

“But she’s not the poisoner, surely?” John wondered aloud, as they made their way back towards Hilderbogie house a little while later. 

Violet and Murdy were walking a little ahead of Sherlock and John as they headed down the wooded path near the river. Murdy seemed to have calmed somewhat after obliterating Miss Argyle’s collection of twee gnomes and ceramic squirrels. Once she had pushed over the bird table, she allowed herself to be persuaded to come away; only putting up a token protest when Violet wouldn’t permit her to smash some windows for good measure. Violet was blithely chattering on about that nights ceilidh, one sharp eye on Murdy’s darkly thoughtful face as they passed through the silver birches.

“It’s unlikely,” Sherlock agreed. “Miss Argyle is not the type to allow herself to suffer, even as a means to throw off the scent. She does not appear to have much motive to poison her fiancé or Mrs. Duncan, either. I expect the trick with the doll in the box was merely to further implicate the Antonellis; she was clearly enraged that none of the family had been arrested for the crime.”

“But Mrs. Duncan said that they were friends!” John exclaimed. “Would Miss Argyle be willing to endanger her friend’s life like that?”

“Correction. Mrs. Duncan said that Miss Argyle was _her_ friend. Miss Argyle said nothing of the kind about Mrs. Duncan.” Sherlock answered. “Even when she was aware of how frail she was compared to the other victims.”

“Mrs. Duncan’s the type who looks for the good in anyone. She thinks of most of the town as her friend,” Murdy called back over her shoulder. “Even a twisted old bag like Miss Argyle.”

Sherlock nodded gloomily. “It’s a common mistake that people make in small towns. They assume that just because they know their neighbours and see them at church every Sunday they are above suspicion.”

“As opposed to ghastly old London, where everyone you pass on the street is a suspect for a grisly crime?” Violet asked cheerfully.

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed fondly. “With such a large population, the level of persistent criminal activity is quite staggering.”

“You’re like a really weird ad for the London tourist board.” John remarked. “Most people remark on Buck House, Regents Park or the British Museum. Shopping and restaurants. You, Sherlock? You rhapsodise about the splendid variety of criminals available there. I can tell that you’re getting homesick already.” 

“Is that true?” Murdy asked, curiosity seeming to eclipse her rage somewhat. “Are there really that many crimes taking place in London?”

“No!” John exclaimed, while Sherlock rubbed his hands with dark glee and said “Yes!”

They looked at each other meaningfully. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he stared down at John. “Honestly, John! Need I remind you that over the space of the last five years, you’ve been kidnapped several times, drugged, shoved in a bonfire, held at gunpoint, framed for vandalism and on one notable occasion nearly impaled by a ridiculous Chinese crossbow.”

“Yeah, but some of those times it was _you_ who drugged me! And held me at gunpoint. And it was your bloody brother who kidnapped me more than once…” John trailed off, catching sight of Murdy’s intrigued and bemused expression. “Look, it’s not as bad as all that.” he added weakly. 

“I wish I could go, some time.” Murdy said wistfully. “I’ve never been further south than Glasgow.”

“Just don’t get your hopes up that you’ll get drawn into a fascinating criminal conspiracy when you get there,” Violet advised her drily. “These two goons are not entirely typical Londoners. Personally, I view it as a positive sink of humanity that leaves you with distressingly black mucus and a strangely sticky feeling after taking the Tube.”

Sherlock looked vaguely outraged at this slur against his beloved London and opened his mouth to protest; but was distracted by the sight of Mr. Brodie and Patrick, who were carefully replacing the lifebelt on the wooden jetty nearby and winding up the attached length of rope. They had just passed into the grounds of Hilderbogie estate. As the group crossed the snowy lawn they disturbed a murder of crows that rose into the air like a cloud, croaking and cawing disdainfully. Mr. Brodie raised his hand in salute and gave them his customary grin, which crinkled the corners of his dark eyes genially. Patrick finished carefully coiling the rope around the peg underneath the life belt and dusted off his calfskin gloves. 

“Hello, all!” Brodie called as they approached the icy wooden jetty. “How are you all today?”

“Have you seen Miss Argyle today, Mr. Brodie?” Murdy asked at once.

“Well as a matter of fact I have, lass. I saw her going into the drapers earlier, no doubt getting her finery for the ceilidh tonight. Why, what do you want her for?” he asked curiously. 

“Interrogation.” Murdy muttered darkly. “For starters.”

Mr Brodie looked down at her inquiringly, but if he was expecting more information he was disappointed. He glanced around at the rest of the group, who had all suddenly become rather interested in their surroundings and didn’t meet his gaze.

“Mr. Singh here has kindly been helping me set things to rights after last night,” he said, after a pause. “We’re going to go take a look at the horses in a bit.”

“I haven’t ridden in several years, though.” Patrick said, slightly nervously. 

Mr. Brodie slapped him on the back heartily, causing Patrick’s hair to fly over his shoulder by several inches. “Och, it’ll all come back to you in no time. Don’t you worry.”

John bit his lip and shared a glance with Violet, who also seemed to be having trouble hiding her amusement. Patrick was looking rather startled, and no wonder. John could easily believe that it was the first time that anyone had slapped him on the back with such cheerful gusto.

“Mr. Brodie is going to show me some of the locations for Samuel Peploe’s early landscapes.” Patrick added, after he had smoothed back several gleaming locks of dark hair. “It should be easier to travel the roads since the thaw this morning.”

“Mm, well just be careful. There’s more snow on the way by nightfall,” Violet advised, and turned for the house. “And neither of you would want to miss the shindig tonight, would you?”

“Certainly not!” Mr. Brodie agreed, and pulled his knitted hat down over his ears. “I haven’t done the Frisky or the Gay Gordons for ages!”

***  
“So what, exactly, is going on there then?” John murmured to Violet as soon as they were out of earshot from Patrick and Mr. Brodie. The two men had disappeared around the corner into the stableyard, waving at Griz as she led the large piebald into a nearby stall. “I mean… does Mr. Brodie have… _designs_ on Patrick?”

Violet grinned a little and shrugged. “Possible. Mr. Brodie’s what you might call a confirmed bachelor; but we all have our fancies from time to time. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded another go with Patrick; but it’s probably doing his ego a bit of good to be flirted with.”

“Oh, come on. Look at the bloke!” John snorted. “He must have people coming on to him all the time.”

Violet made an unconvinced sort of noise. “He’s not what you’d call the most approachable of souls though, is he? I mean, when you look like that, it takes someone with a certain level of confidence to try it on.”

“Like you, you mean?” John asked innocently.

“Well, quite.” Violet agreed. “And our Mr. Brodie is that level of charming to everyone, to be honest. It wouldn’t faze him at all, to be confronted with someone who looks as if he’d been designed by Michelangelo on one of his really good days.”

“Are you two quite finished gossiping like teenage girls?” Sherlock queried with exaggerated politeness, moving towards the east side of the house, where the kitchen door was situated.

Murdy looked slightly outraged at this statement, but didn’t seem quite brave enough to remonstrate with Sherlock. Violet had no such compunction, however, and reached up to give him a clip around the ear.

“Less of your cheek, you terrible gudgeon. Or there’ll be no cake for you at tea-time.”

“What sort of cake?” Sherlock inquired sharply.

“Yoghurt, steel wool and lard cake, if you don’t mind your p’s and q’s.” Violet replied tartly, and rounded the corner of the house. She stopped dead. “Oh, _hell!_ ”

The source of her displeasure became clear in less than a second. As they followed her around the side of Hilderbogie house, John Sherlock and Murdy were confronted with the sight of a police car lightly dusted with snow. Two uniformed officers were peering through the small square windows of the kitchen, where John recalled the wooden box and ill-used doll had been left on the table earlier. 

***

“An anonymous tip-off.” Sherlock repeated flatly, when the officer had explained why they were visiting Hilderbogie.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, sir.” PC Erskine said meekly. He was an earnest pale young man, who appeared to be mainly comprised of bobbing Adams apple and fidgeting limbs. He was visibly sweating under Sherlock’s scrutiny, despite the freezing temperatures. John was inclined to feel rather sorry for him, if it wasn’t for the way that Murdy had turned silent and poker-faced at the sight of the officers from the Aberdeenshire constabulary. He edged in front of her, in what he hoped was a casual fashion. 

“An accurate tip-off, by all accounts.” Erskines’ colleague, PC MacAllan said bravely. He was no more impressive, and seemed to quail under Sherlock’s gaze. His ears were glowing red with either embarrassment or the cold and he rumpled the hem of his jacket compulsively. “Um. That is. I mean to say, the box. It’s right there, Mr. Holmes. It’s on Miss Vernet’s kitchen table, right there.” He directed an almost-steady index finger at the kitchen window.

“Can we, er. Can we take a look?” Erskine asked with a pleading note in his voice. “I mean, we need to see that box. At, um. Once.” he added, with a brave attempt at assertiveness.

“Do you have a warrant?” Murdy asked suddenly, from behind John. She dug the toe of her boot mulishly into the snow. Everyone turned to look at her, but she didn’t raise her eyes from the snow. “I mean, they need a warrant don’t they? It’s in Miss Vernet’s house.”

PC MacAllan pursed his lips fretfully. “We’re hoping that you’re going to be helpful. And who are you anyway, Miss? I thought it was only Miss Vernet who lived here.”

“Oh, the little sweetie is doing a school project using some of the books in the library.” Violet said smoothly, completely failing to identify Murdy by name. “In fact, shouldn’t you be off home dear?” she added, flicking a meaningful gaze at Murdy. The latter bristled somewhat, although John suspected it was mainly due to Violet’s sickly epithet. The girl seemed inclined to protest, but eventually nodded jerkily before turning and clumping off across the snow-covered gravel. 

Sherlock and Violet shared a brief but loaded glance. 

Erskine appeared to be on the verge of calling after Murdy, when Violet directed a warm smile at him. The gangling man swallowed hard, his eyes drawn to Violet’s scars and then to her outstretched hand in its snug red suede glove. He gingerly shook it, and visibly relaxed when she airily said “I don’t think we’ve got any need for warrants just yet, do we chaps?”

“Oh, er. Very glad that you see it that way, Missus. I mean, um. Miss Vernet.” Erskine stammered, and followed her into the kitchen after wiping his boots assiduously on the scraper outside. MacAllan glanced nervously at Sherlock and John before heading inside, his large hands still worrying at the hem of his jacket. 

John grasped the lapel of Sherlock’s coat as he made to follow them and hauled the detective close enough to hiss in his ear “What’s the plan?”

Sherlock looked meaningfully at the handful of creased fabric in John’s hand, before meeting his gaze. “Say you’re the one that found it this morning. We’ll keep her out of it as much as we can. Thank God it’s the holidays – these two are so wet behind the ears they could keep _goldfish_ back there. It’s obvious they were the only officers available to investigate the tip.”

John caught sight of MacAllan peering at them through the kitchen door curiously, and he gave the young man what he hoped was a cheerful and above all innocent smile. He distantly heard Violet trill “Oh, never mind them. Quite the little love-birds, sometimes I honestly don’t know _where_ to look….”

MacAllan looked away so quickly, his reddening neck seemed in danger of snapping. John grinned up at Sherlock and gave him a loud and smacking kiss on the cheek before letting go of his coat. Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiped his cheek with the back of his glove before following John through the door.

“So, um. May we ask how it came into your possession?” PC Erskine asked timidly, gripping his uniform cap with both hands and nodding towards the tonic box which sat carelessly on the long wooden table. 

“Tea, officers?” Violet inquired, filling the kettle. 

“Oh, er. Thank you Missus. I mean-“

“We need to warm you gentlemen up, don’t we?” Violet murmured, edging past PC Erskine rather too closely on her way to the stove. John could tell that the young officer was torn between being fascinated by the scars on her face and the cleavage revealed above her exquisitely tailored electric blue dress. She had rapidly unfastened her coat upon entering the kitchen, and John was almost sure that the top couple of buttons on her bodice had not been undone that morning. He resisted the urge to giggle at Erskine’s face, his pale eyelashes flickering up and down as he took in Violet’s arresting appearance.

MacAllan was studying the Figmaleery’s box with such great intensity, it was clear he was just trying not to look at Sherlock and John. He cleared his throat noisily, and moved on to inspecting the unfortunate Petunia. The doll was lying face-down on the scrubbed wood, looking abandoned and rather pitiful. John fought the urge to turn it over and sit it upright so that the lazy blinking eyes would open properly.

Sherlock discarded his coat carelessly on the dresser nearby, and took possession of the most comfortable chair next to the fireplace which was now burning low.

“A happy accident. My _partner_ discovered it this morning, when he was retrieving a misplaced article of clothing. He must have mislaid it when we were coming through the undergrowth last night.”

MacAllan, if possible, flushed even more darkly. John glared at Sherlock, who didn’t seem to notice. 

“-You will no doubt be aware of the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Duncan’s re-admittance to hospital. The box was clearly designed to lure her into the water, but in the end it was not necessary. Just out of curiosity, when your _anonymous informant_ telephoned the station; did she say it was anywhere near a large overhanging oak or further along the path?”

“How did you know it was a wo-“ Erskine asked, then shut his jaw with a snap. Violet patted him in a commiserating fashion on the shoulder, and passed him a plate of honey cake along with a steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you so much for that confirmation.” Sherlock drawled, unwinding his scarf wearily. “What did she tell you, exactly?”

“We cannot divulge that information.“ MacAllan muttered, shooting an irritated look at his unfortunate colleague before getting distracted by the arrival of Violet. She nodded understandingly as she pushed a cup into his hand and stroked his uniformed arm admiringly. “I mean, that is to say… it’s um, um...” he cast around wildly, momentarily lost for words. “Confidential! Yes. Yes, that’s it. Confidential.”

“We can’t tell you.” Erskine said adamantly, sitting down with a thump in a chair that Violet pulled out for him.

John paused mid-way through unlacing his snow-covered boots and looked up at the Aberdeen constabulary’s finest. “Er, you two do know who this one is, right?” he jerked his head at Sherlock, who was now interestedly peering into the cake tin. ”He’s quite good at this sort of thing. We’re doing our best to help with the case, same as you.” he said mildly.

“And it’s an _honour_ , obviously.” Erskine said, in a rush. “A great honour to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock did not respond to this, partially due to the fact that his mouth was now full of cake; but mainly because he didn’t seem to feel the need to dignify such toadying with an answer.

“How did you know it was here?” John asked curiously, taking a seat. 

“Um, we deduced that-“

“They didn’t. They clearly just followed the path and after they didn’t find the box, decided to try the first house they encountered.” Sherlock said, after swallowing a large chunk of cake. “They knew what to look for. I’m quite sure that she told them exactly what type of box and what it contained. Elementary mistake, really.”

MacAllan subsided somewhat. “Alright, yes. We were told that the reason Mrs. Duncan ended up in the river last night was because she was lured in by means of a… a decoy minor in a wooden receptacle.”

“That’s right. A wee dolly in a box.” Erskine agreed, earning himself another glare from his colleague.

“What’s the latest news on poor Mrs. Duncan, anyway?” Violet asked, solicitously pouring him another cup of tea. 

“We cannot comment on an ongoing investigation or the status of-“ MacAllan deflated swiftly under Sherlock’s gaze. “Um. She’s not conscious yet. It’s not looking all that promising, apparently, if she’s been unconscious for so long.”

“And you’ve been to the Duncans’ house to check if there was a written note or phone message there.” Sherlock supplied. “There wasn’t of course. Obviously.”

“We cannot-“ MacAllan began. 

“No, not a thing.” Eskine agreed, dejectedly.

“But there obviously was a real message, not just a delusion of Mrs. Duncan’s.” said John. “So where’d it get to?”

“The culprit must have nipped back and retrieved it or deleted it somehow.” Violet suggested, taking a seat next to Erskine and crossed her legs slowly. One of her buttoned, high-heeled red boots came to rest casually a mere inch from his calf. The pale young man was trying his best to stop staring, but failing miserably. “One less piece of evidence. Sensible thing to do, really, if you had the chance. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Sherlock sighed, and snapped his fingers sharply to catch Erskine’s attention. MacAllan flinched slightly. “Oh, this is too dull for words. Obviously, this was set up to incriminate one of the Antonelli family. Yes?”

After a moment or two, the officers nodded warily. Erskine wriggled slightly and offered, “But it _could_ have been one of them, though. There’s nowhere else in Hilderbogie that sells that stuff…”

“Then why on earth would they have used that box? It would be simply _moronic._ ” 

“Um. It might have been a double bluff. You know, to throw off the scent-“ MacAllan suggested. “It’s so obvious that they did it as a means of making it look like they didn’t. If you know what I mean.”

“Moronic!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?!”

“He means the person who did it, of course.” John said swiftly. “Not you, PC MacAllan.”

“Actually-“

“ _The person that did it._ ” John repeated forcefully, over Sherlock’s attempt to contradict him. “Look, the box was at the bowling club hall, where the Womens Institute meet. That doll came from the same place. The shawl it was wrapped in looks like jumble sale material, too.”

“There’s a lot of women in the Antonelli family.” MacAllan muttered darkly. 

“That is true, how observant of you. None of them to my knowledge are in the WI, though.” Violet smiled sweetly.

MacAllan opened his mouth to reply, but whatever grain of wisdom he was about to share was lost when there was a loud knock on the door. Craning his neck to catch sight of whoever was pushing the heavy wooden door open, John was rather taken aback at the sight of the church caretaker Mr. Mackie. He pulled off his worn tweed cap immediately at the sight of Violet, and wiped his heavy boots carefully on the doormat.

“Afternoon, all.” His heavily lined forehead creased even more impressively as he grinned around the kitchen; seeming a little puzzled at the sight of the uniformed officers at Violet’s table. “Just came to drop off your tickets for the ceilidh tonight. I’ve been clearing out the hall all morning, it’s shined up a treat and the musicians are already setting up...” he trailed off, catching sight of the wooden box and doll. “Hang on. What in the wide world is that doing here?”


	22. Chapter 22

“What exactly are you referring to, Mr. Mackie?” Violet asked carefully, after a long pause. She put down the silver teapot on the table, and looked at the groundskeeper curiously. PCs Erskine and MacAllan stared at the sudden arrival, taking in Larry Mackie’s comfortably shabby tweeds and his impressive ears. 

“My box, Miss Vernet! How did it end up here? Last I saw it, it was over at the bowling club hall.”

“ _Your_ box?!” Sherlock said sharply, sitting up straight. 

“Well, I think it’s mine.” Mackie said thoughtfully, looking a little bemused and bending over to take a closer look. “Handy thing, a wooden box that size. Yes, definitely mine – I put that ding in the edge there, when I knocked it against the wall. I was keeping my curling stones in it ‘til recently, in the churchyard store. ”

“Until recently?” John prodded.

“Hm, well I donated my curling gear to the parish jumble sale recently; box and all. Do you curl, Miss Vernet? I had to give it up as it plays merry hell with my sciatica. I hope you got a bargain, the stones were a bit chipped.”

“Only my eyelashes, Mr. Mackie.” Violet assured him, gesturing him towards a seat and reaching for a spare cup. “So you donated the box to the jumble sale, along with everything else?” 

“Well, I was going to take it back with me, but Miss Argyle didn’t have anything else to put my stuff into. Well, she _said_ that she didn’t; but I don’t think that she wanted to take the time to find another box.” Mr. Mackie grimaced. “She also told me off for tracking the tiniest wee bit of mud into the bowling club hall. Glared at me and told me that cleanliness was next to Godliness, the old besom.”

“And where did you get the box from, sir? Drink a lot of tonic water, do you?” PC MacAllan queried, giving Mackie a hard stare and reaching for his notebook.

“I’ve had it a little while now.” Mackie said vaguely, taking a deep swig of his tea. “Maybe around a month? What’s all this about, anyhow?”

“This is an extremely pertinent aspect of an official police investigation.” MacAllan said sternly. Larry Mackie gave the young constable an amused look, and John suspected that it was only the police uniform that stopped him patting MacAllan on the head. 

“Och, _weeell,_ if it’s so pertinent I’d better tell you, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t like to get into trouble with a pair of big laddies like you two, eh?”

“You didn’t buy a box of the tonic, I assume?” Sherlock asked, leaning forwards. “You’re clearly not a gin-drinker.”

“Yuck, filthy stuff.” Mackie confirmed with a grimace. “No, I found it. It was going to get thrown away, along with a load of old junk that was in Mrs. Duncan’s greenhouse when I cleared it out before Christmas.” He paused, and reached for a slice of cake; not noticing the expressions on the faces around him. “Oh, and did you hear that the poor lady ended up in the river last night?”

 

***

“Do you think that anyone is home?” John asked warily, as he and Sherlock stealthily approached the Duncan’s house through the churchyard. The Victorian villa had one or two lights lit, shining through the fading afternoon gloom. The temperature seemed to be dropping by the second, and the partially melted snow was freezing into a hard icy crust around the ancient lop-sided headstones. The familiar sound of a violin being tuned was coming from the open door of the nearby church hall, which had pine boughs and holly wreathing the tall arched doorway.

“No. The curtains are undrawn, although it’s nearly dark.” Sherlock observed tersely. “Reverend Duncan probably left those lights on either last night or this morning. He must still be in Aberdeen.”

“I suppose if Mrs. Duncan is in a worsening condition, he wouldn’t want to leave the hospital.” John huffed on his hands and chafed them together. He glared up at the six-foot high granite wall that ringed the Duncans’ back garden and sighed. “Come on then, give me a leg up.”

He landed inelegantly in a snowdrift on the other side, slipping and sliding until coming to a halt next to a set of snow-capped cucumber frames. Sherlock (typically) managed to scale the wall and drop down into the garden with much more aplomb, landing neatly on the lawn. He dusted the snow from his gloves and eyed John pityingly as he rubbed a bruised shin.

“You know, you could have just tried the garden gate.” said a familiar voice, and Murdy Antonelli appeared out of the gloom beneath a couple of apple trees. “It’s just over there. The hinges were even oiled recently. Doesn’t squeak a bit.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked sharply, clearly choosing to ignore the gibe about the gate. 

“How did you know we were going to be here?” John said curiously, taking another careful glance at the dimly lit house.

“I went round the front door of Miss Vernet’s house, then nipped down and listened at the kitchen door.” Murdy said, after a brief pause. She seemed to be doing her best to seem unabashed. “Look, this concerns my dad and my family. I wasn’t just going to go home when the police were sniffing around like that, was I? Those two were a pair of eejits who were obviously tempted to go and arrest my dad because they couldn’t think of anything else to do!” 

“Look, we understand, Murdy. We really do. But-“ John began.

“But nothing!” she growled. “We’re damn well going to sort this out once and for all.” Murdy glared up at him, her fists clenched at her sides. “Besides, you two don’t know where the key to the greenhouse is kept anyhow, do you?”

“It’s either under one of those terracotta pots or inside that bird-feeder.” Sherlock said dismissively, gesturing over his shoulder.

Murdy deflated somewhat. “ _Fine_. It’s in the bird-feeder. Just… just let me help, alright?”

Sherlock studied her pinched face for a long moment, then sighed. “Oh, alright. If you insist.”

“Does your dad know where you are?” John felt compelled to ask. “It’s almost dark. Won’t he be worried?”

Murdy shook her head impatiently. “It’s fine. It’s always bloody dark here in winter anyhow. I told him I was going to the library at Miss Vernet’s. Look, I’ll probably go there after this, alright? It’s _almost_ true. It’s _potentially_ true. Dad’ll just think that I’m avoiding going to the ceilidh, anyway. He won’t come looking for me for ages.”

It was probably a sign that he spent too much time in Sherlock’s company that John found himself reluctantly accepting this extremely twisted piece of reasoning. He sighed and nodded, before following her over the crunchy snow of the back lawn to the old Victorian glass house. 

“Where have the police gone, anyhow?” Murdy asked. “I didn’t hear everything through the door.”

“Sherlock asked them to see if they can track down a list of businesses that stock Figmaleery’s tonic in Aberdeen. Since it doesn’t seem to have been directly ordered from the manufacturer or bought from your shop, it’s quite likely that it was bought there.”

Murdy nodded, coming to a halt in front of the greenhouse. It was a rather lovely piece of design, perhaps only fifteen feet long but comprised of green-painted wooden frames and arched wrought iron. Through the glass, a long low bench covered with many empty terracotta pots was visible, stretching around three sides of the structure. It being winter, there was very little growing in the greenhouse and there was a general air of disuse; an upturned wheelbarrow and various gardening implements were piled in the centre of the worn tiled floor. 

Sherlock retrieved the heavy iron key from the bird-feeder and unlocked the glass-panelled door with a loud creak. John held up his phone to use it as a torch, illuminating the greenhouse with a slightly ghostly blue glow. 

“Mr. Mackie said that the box didn’t contain anything when he found it in here.” John informed Murdy, who was scanning the space with interest. “He reckoned it was just chucked in with the rest of the stuff at the end of the summer.”

“Don’t think so.” Murdy observed. “It looks like it was on this shelf here, see where the pots have been pushed back? About the right size for a box that size. There’s no other gaps like that on the shelves, they’re all evenly spaced.” 

“And what does that tell us?” Sherlock asked, with every appearance of disinterest that didn’t fool John in the slightest. 

“Well, when Mrs. Duncan emptied her pots at the end of the summer she put them in here neatly. She’s a tidy sort of woman; it’s second nature for her to line things up in rows like this. Mr. Mackie, too – he swept the place out well and piled up these rakes and the wheelbarrow in the middle where nobody would trip over them.” Murdy gestured a little awkwardly at the tools in front of them, before digging her hands deep into her coat pockets again. “The box was shoved onto the shelf and the pots were pushed out of the way.” she met Sherlock’s challenging gaze. “This may be Mrs. Duncan’s greenhouse, but she didn’t put the box there.”

Sherlock nodded, giving the girl a sharp penetrating look. “So?”

“So…” Murdy swallowed hard. “So it was somebody untidy, or in a hurry who put the box in here. Maybe both.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but did not lift his gaze from her long pale face. She shrugged, letting her heavy dark hair fall into her eyes. “So… it was probably the Reverend Duncan who put it in here.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Murdy glared at the ground, before abruptly kicking the upturned wheelbarrow. It clanged loudly, making John jump. He glanced nervously at the dimly lit house for signs of life, but there were none. 

“So Reverend Duncan had a box of the tonic water at some stage.” Sherlock observed, ignoring how Murdy was biting her lower lip, which had been trembling slightly. “Odd, don’t you think, that he didn’t mention this fact, when his wife had been poisoned by this brand?”

“Murdy. Are you alright?” John asked quietly. She glared at him as he took a small step towards her, and he instinctively shied away; his hands held up placatingly. 

Murdy gulped audibly. “He was going around telling people not to blame us! He came round, sat at our kitchen table and fucking _reassured_ us that he was sure that none of my family had anything to do with it!” She wiped her nose clumsily with her sleeve. “And I was _grateful!_ He’s been lending me books for ages! He’s gotten the twins out of trouble loads of times! Why would he poison my dad?”

“That’s not the pressing question.” Sherlock said firmly. “Come along, Miss Antonelli. We need to find some evidence.”

John was poised to protest, to tell Sherlock to give Murdy a moment to pull herself together. Although something had clearly been fishy about the Reverend, it was obviously still a shock for Murdy to start believing that the man was responsible for the poisonings. This was a small town; she had known him all her life. He was one of the few people in town who seemed to take her seriously, who had bothered to nurture her desire for knowledge. It wasn’t just that Reverend Duncan probably was responsible for endangering her fathers life and business. The betrayal was personal; Murdy had lost a friend and John doubted she had that many to begin with.

But perhaps Sherlock had the right idea, John pondered. He suspected action, more than anything, would help her. Murdy didn’t seem like the type who would appreciate a good cry and a hug (Christ, I’d probably lose my arm if I tried it). She was already scrubbing her sleeve across her face and she gave one loud sniff before turning to face the Duncan’s house. 

“Alright. We’re going in, then?” she inquired, in a hard tone.

“Obviously.” Sherlock replied, stalking towards the kitchen door. He glanced down at her out of the corner of his eye and half smiled. “Care to learn how to pick a lock?”

***

The Duncans’ house bore the signs of an attempted clean-up, but was still somewhat messy. Alice Duncan had only been home a matter of hours before heading out to the river on the previous evening. Despite still recuperating, she had swept the kitchen tiles. Some dishes had been washed and left to dry next to the sink. The table was now bare, the stained gingham tablecloth removed but not yet replaced. John, who was familiar with the sinking sensation of returning home to a chaotic flat and the remains of Sherlock’s experiments, felt a pang of sympathy for the woman as he looked round the dark kitchen. 

“He’s not a tidy man at all.” Murdy informed John, following his gaze. “You saw what he was like, the other day. He can barely find a thing in his own kitchen. He just sticks stuff on the nearest available space when he’s finished with it. Sticking that box in the greenhouse, that was _messy_.”

“Lazy.” Sherlock corrected her. “He probably intended to hide it in a more discreet place, but hadn’t managed it yet. Besides, he’s done a very good job of throwing off the scent so far; the man is clearly feeling secure. When Mrs. Duncan ended up in the river last night, he must have thought that Christmas had arrived all over again.”

“So, we’re rethinking the method of poisoning then?” John asked, following Sherlock down the hall and towards the stairs. “I mean, if he had another box of tonic water here-“

“Quite.” Sherlock confirmed, in a tone that probably only John would realise was a little defensive. “The fact that it is not widely available, particularly in this town, was misleading. 

It would appear that he poisoned four bottles that he procured elsewhere and replaced the ones on the shelf in the shop. It wouldn’t have taken him long. The bottles aren’t particularly large. He could easily have hidden four in an overcoat.” 

Murdy said nothing, leading the way up the narrow staircase and into Reverend Duncan’s cluttered study which was at the front of the house. The landing was dark, lit only by a dim beam of light from a lamp left on in the bedroom near the top of the stairs. John caught sight of a silver framed photograph on a low table next to a jug of dead flowers; on closer inspection it was from Reverend and Mrs. Duncans’ wedding portrait. He paused, letting Sherlock and Murdy go on ahead into the study as he picked it up.

It must have been in late springtime, he decided, as he took in the scene. The couple were standing under a pair of flowering cherry trees, squinting slightly into bright sunlight. They were at least two decades younger; the minister clean-shaven and smartly dressed in a double breasted grey suit, with surprisingly dark hair neatly slicked back. Alice Duncan was smiling shyly, her eyes bright. Despite her fluffy hair and the fussy puff sleeved, ribbon covered white dress she wore, she looked beautiful. She looked healthy and strong despite her petite frame. John stared at the image, at the love and trust apparent between the couple. Reverend Duncan looked genuinely thrilled, his smile beaming as he wrapped his arm around his new wife’s shoulders. At that point in time, the Duncans were probably both thinking of a long and happy life together; maybe planning to start a family. And at some point, something must have changed; or they must have changed. Did Alice Duncan realise that her husband wasn’t the same man she married? Or did she still think that he was the same devoted husband in the photo? Did she have any inkling of the darkness within him?

From the study down the hall, he could hear Murdy and Sherlock moving piles of books and furniture around, the dragging creak of a heavy desk being pushed aside. Distractedly, John replaced the heavy silver frame back down on the table and followed them into the room.

“Christ. Tell me that you two didn’t make all this mess?” he asked, taking in the disarray. The room was overflowing with books and papers, every surface covered with notebooks and volumes. The desk drawers that Murdy was systematically pulling open were stuffed with detritus; old biros, packets of tissues, dog-eared dictionaries, paperknives and chipped paperweights.

“No.” Sherlock reassured him. “Or at least, not _entirely_ our doing.” he added, as Murdy unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the carpet.

She glanced up at them as she rifled through the messy pile. “Look, he clearly won’t notice that things aren’t put back exactly as they were. He doesn’t let Mrs. Duncan clean in here, look at the state of the place. Who knows when he’ll be home? We might not have another chance to search in here.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point.” John agreed reluctantly, taking a swift glance out of the window from behind the curtains. The driveway was still empty. “Do you think it’s wise to have the light on in here, though?"

“Needs must, John.” Sherlock said, turning to the bookcase and feeling carefully along the gap between the volumes and the shelves above. “Come on, get started!”

John glanced out the window once more, before pulling out another of the desk drawers and joining Murdy on the carpet. She was methodically rifling through pages of a notebook of sermons, her long thin fingers flicking rapidly through the creased pages. John’s drawer was full of correspondence with parishioners, ill-sorted and some of it dating back to the early nineties at least. It looked as if an ashtray had been upended into the drawer at some point and he grimaced as he attempted to wipe grimy ash off his fingers. 

“Ugh. This is bloody worse than our cutlery drawer at home.”

Sherlock ignored him, but Murdy looked up curiously. “Reverend Duncan doesn’t smoke.”

“Well he must have done some time.” John muttered, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Christ, the whole drawer stinks. He probably spilt the ashtray years ago, then just shut the drawer instead of bothering to clean up the mess. All these letters are years old.”

Sherlock had stopped examining the bookcase, and was merely standing in the centre of the room, his eyes darting around the study rapidly. He seemed to disregard the exchange between John and Murdy for several seconds, before he blinked rapidly and turned to face them. “If the Reverend doesn’t smoke, why is he hiding cigarettes inside the light fittings?”

“Hiding a habit from his wife?” John asked, peering up at the dusty glass globes of the light overhead. He glanced at Sherlock. “Not that we know anyone who does that sort of thing, obviously. How do you know there are cigarettes up there? Can you see an outline?”

“Mm, no. But there’s a very faint smell of tobacco. Not the stale ash from the drawer; a scent of dried out tobacco that has been repeatedly warmed but hasn’t been smoked. Ergo: light fitting.”

“Can you tell what sort?” Murdy asked curiously. “I’ve read your blog. Can you really identify two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “I wrote that ages ago. I’m up to three hundred and four now.” he paused, and raised a faintly incredulous eyebrow at her. “Wait. You actually read it?”

“Look at that.” John observed drily. “It actually happened, you found an audience. Only took about five years.”

“The brand is nothing special.” Sherlock said, ignoring John. He grabbed the dark wooden desk chair and pulled it into the centre of the room. He donned his leather gloves before leaping up on the seat. “Lambert and Butler, if I’m not mistaken.”

He fished around in the dusty bowl of the lamp and after a second or two retrieved a small silver wrapped box, cellophane missing and the corner a little dented. He leapt down onto the carpet and examined the packet with interest. John and Murdy got to their feet and watched him slide the lid back to reveal a full box of cigarettes, slightly dry looking and a little battered. “Quite a clever place to hide it, really. Everyone’s got a secret vice or two; even if this were found it could easily be discarded by someone searching for evidence.”

Sherlock bent the lid back carefully, displaying the tips of the closely packed cigarettes. “Odd, isn’t it? The pack has been opened but all the cigarettes are still inside.”

“There’s something underneath, isn’t there?” Murdy asked, after a moment. John had reached the same conclusion, but he was finding it interesting watching her make these leaps. Sherlock first handed his gloves and then the box to her, with a faintly challenging air.

Murdy pulled on his gloves and looked at the box thoughtfully for a few seconds, before gently drumming on the base with her index finger. It gave a faint, hollow thrum under the pressure of her touch, and after a moment she began to ease one of the cigarettes out with thumb and forefinger. It didn’t slide out easily, though – after a second or two she took hold of the tips of all of the cigarettes and tugged gently. They emerged at once, twenty white cylinders found together with a band of tape. All of them were missing their filters, having been neatly severed perhaps two thirds down their lengths. Murdy placed this bundle carefully on the desk and peered into the box, her large dark eyes widening a little. She held it up wordlessly for John and Sherlock to see.

Inside the base was a dismantled hypodermic syringe; the needle gleaming silver alongside the plastic vial and plunger.

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. “Odd, isn’t it? Killers so often feel the need to keep these little souvenirs. Logically, one would think it best to incinerate or destroy the evidence in some way. But the Reverend is clearly a hoarder, with an untidy mind. He hangs on to things, even if they might destroy him.”

“We had better call Erskine and MacAllan,” John said. “They’ll need to see this stuff in situ.”

“Should we put it back where it was?” Murdy asked, studying the needle and the cigarette packet with great interest.

“Probably for the best.” Sherlock agreed. “I’ll just take some photographs first. Not to remind myself, _obviously_ but sometimes dullards like those police officers need things spelling out…” he trailed off, and frowned in the direction of the window.

Murdy’s eyes widened and she too turned towards the window. John darted towards the lightswitch and flicked it down, blanketing the room in darkness once more. From outside the faint sound of a car door being slammed was audible.

Murdy was still holding the cigarette packet, and she quickly closed the lid with her gloved hands. She nimbly leapt onto the desk chair and dropped the box into the dusty ceiling lamp. In a couple of seconds she had returned the chair to where it had stood next to the desk, and began helping John and Sherlock shovel the scattered notebooks and correspondence off the carpet and back into the drawers.

“Five seconds and we get out of here.” Sherlock muttered.

“D’you think he saw the light?” John hissed, pushing an overstuffed drawer back into the desk. He swore as it jammed, and thumped it into place as quietly as he could. Murdy grabbed the last bundle of letters and notes and shoved it into the last drawer before sliding it home. John ducked over to the doorway, and heard the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. “Christ, he’s downstairs!”

“Come along, Miss Antonelli.” Sherlock murmured, planting his hand on her shoulder and pushing her towards the landing.

“But-“ she whispered frantically. “Wait, there’s the-“

“We need to go. Now.” John ordered them both. “We’ll wait in the spare room til he’s in the kitchen, and then sneak downstairs and out the front.”

“But wait-!” Murdy argued. “I can still-“

“No time!” John repeated, gesturing frantically downstairs. The front door was being pushed open, and a bright light suddenly illuminated the hallway below. 

From the landing, John caught sight of the back of Reverend Duncan’s gleaming silver head as he took off his felt hat and unwound his scarf, dropping them both on the foot of the stairs. Sherlock peered curiously downstairs, watching the man toe off his shoes and nudging them towards the wall.

For a few seconds in which John’s heart-rate elevated dangerously, it appeared that the minister was planning on coming straight upstairs. He slowly walked towards the bottom step, going so far as to grip the large carved post at the base of the bannisters before pausing. His face was in shadow, the bright light on the hall table throwing his features into dark pits of shadow. While he hesitated briefly, Sherlock pushed Murdy smartly down the landing and into a small, rather blandly decorated bedroom at the front of the house.

John followed on their heels, casting a swift last glance down into the hall. To his great relief, the man downstairs seemed to have changed his mind about coming up. John checked the small of his back where the Walther was snugly tucked into the waistband of his jeans, hoping that he would be able to leave it there.

“Listen to me!” Murdy was whispering as he entered the room and pushed the door partway shut. “The cigarettes! They’re still on the desk. They’ll be the first bloody thing he sees if he goes in there!”

“We’ve got to get going, Murdy.” John said at once, before Sherlock could respond. “The man’s a bloody murderer and we’re not going to risk running into him and getting into a fight if you could get in the middle of it.”

Murdy stared at him in outrage. “I’m not a bloody _child!_ ”

John resisted the urge to retort that that was exactly what she was. He was already regretting permitting her to accompany them into the house in the first place.

Sherlock was listening intently at the door, peering down the hall. “He’s in the kitchen now. I can hear the kettle boiling.”

“Then it’s time to get out of here.” John said firmly. “Never mind the bloody cigarettes; the important thing is to get out of here before he figures out we’re in his house.”

“But he’ll know someone was in here the second he sees the cigarettes!” Murdy whispered insistently. “He’ll know, and he’ll destroy the evidence and he’ll damn well _get away with it!_ ”

“He won’t! I promise he won’t.” John attempted to assure her. “We’ll make sure of it."

The look she gave him spoke volumes about her total lack of confidence about this. He shook his head firmly, and waited for Sherlock to give them the all-clear.

“Fridge door just opened.” Sherlock muttered. “He’s getting some supper. Come along, Miss Antonelli; John is right in this instance, regrettably.”

Murdy pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled deeply. _”Fine.”_ She slumped in defeat, moving towards the door. She led the way down the ill-lit landing, moving silently despite her large boots. At the top of the stairs she paused, listening carefully for movement below.

She suddenly turned to face John and Sherlock, who had caught up with her. “Look, it’ll only take one minute. You two get the door open and I’ll be right behind you.”

And with that, she darted into the open doorway of the study.

“Murdy!” John hissed, torn between following her into the study and standing guard at the top of the stairs. “There’s no bloody ti-“

Without warning, Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth and shoved him abruptly up against the wall, pushing him out of the light that filtered up from the hall. The reason for this became obvious within seconds; as Sherlock towed John back into the spare bedroom the bottom steps creaked. Reverend Duncan was slowly making his way up the stairs, wearily loosening his tie. The minister had rid himself of his heavy overcoat, but was still wearing his tweed jacket. He was still as perfectly groomed as ever, his silver hair and beard neatly combed; but he looked exhausted and there were prominent bags under his steely eyes.

John watched with horror as the man made his way to the top of the stairs; hoping against hope that the clearly dog-tired Duncan was going to go to bed or take a shower. His journey up the stairs was achingly slow, and by the time he reached the top John’s heart was hammering in his chest. Sherlock’s hand was still pressed over his mouth; no longer to silence him but because neither man dared move. They were ill-concealed in the doorway, but moving any further away from the study was not an option.

Reverend Duncan paused at the top of the staircase, slipping one hand into his pocket as he grasped the newel post. He seemed deep in thought; and for one wild hopeful moment John thought that he might be about to walk into the dark bathroom directly opposite. Almost immediately, though his hopes were dashed and Duncan turned towards the half-open door of his study.

John began to push Sherlock away at once, shoving at his forearm but the detective caught hold of his shoulders at once. He bent down to John’s ear and breathed: “Not yet. She had several seconds to conceal herself.”

“She’s in there on her own with a fucking murderer!” John argued in a terse whisper. “She’s fucking _fourteen_ , Sherlock! I’m not leaving her defenceless in there!”

Sherlock was clearly about to argue, when a light switch was flicked in the study. Murdy’s voice was steady and clear as a bell when they heard her say: “Evening, Reverend Duncan.”

“Murdina! What on earth-?”

The minister’s back was visible in silhouette from where they stood. He was standing just inside the door, and in his surprise he dropped his necktie which had been dangling from his fingers.

“Sorry it’s a bit late in the day, Reverend. I just wanted to talk to you about something,” they heard Murdy reply calmly.

“How did you get in?” he replied, moving a little further into the room. A second later, he disappeared from view as he moved inside the study. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

Sherlock moved at once, sliding along the wall and towards the illuminated doorway with John on his heels. They came to a halt a couple of feet away from the door, peering out of the shadows into the brightly lit room.

Murdy was sitting comfortably in the desk chair, her legs swinging idly as she twisted it this way and that. She half-smiled at the Reverend in a conspiratorial manner. “I told my dad I was over at Miss Vernet’s.”

“Murdina, I’m afraid that this isn’t a terribly good time.” Reverend Duncan sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Could it possibly wait a bit?”

“No, not really.” Murdy informed him. “You see, I’d really like to ask you why you wanted to kill your wife and my dad and the others. I haven’t managed to figure it out just yet.”

John suddenly became aware of the cold sweat pouring down his back, and the restraining hand that Sherlock placed on his wrist. A few feet away, the minister was standing motionlessly in the centre of the room. His face wasn’t visible, but the line of his shoulders looked tense.

“What on earth are you accusing me of, Miss?” he asked hoarsely after a moment. “Honestly, I’ve had one of the worst weeks of my life and this just about puts the tin lid on it. It’s not funny, what happened to Alice and the others. It’s not a joke. I’m surprised at you, lass."

Murdy nodded thoughtfully, pulling the cuffs of her shabby green coat down over her pale hands. “I don’t think it’s funny at all either. I mean, I know you injected the bottles of tonic here before smuggling them into our shop. That was a bit clever, knowing that people would assume the poisoned stuff was the delivery my dad got. And I know that poor Mrs Duncan was the one you wanted to kill the most; the others were just, um… _collateral damage_ , is that the phrase?”

She looked up at the man inquiringly, as if to check a vocabulary test with a teacher. He didn’t reply. “And I understand now, see? You being nice to us, giving me all those interesting books to read… nobody would possibly suspect you, would they? Coming round and saying that nobody should suspect Dad of such a terrible thing?”

“Murdina, you’re talking nonsense.” Reverend Duncan replied, after a long moment. His voice was harsh, and as he turned slightly towards the fireplace John caught sight of his solemn profile and ashy colour. “Look, it’s alright. Girls your age, you can’t help it. You get carried away, you end up believing the things you imagine. It’s a hormonal thing. I understand, I really do. But I assure you, you’re completely mistaken.”

Murdy tipped her head back and regarded him calculatingly. “Do you think you could explain it to me, then? It’s possible I got things a bit mixed up in my wee head.” Her shaggy hair fell into her eyes as she nodded suddenly towards the desk where the bundle of shortened cigarettes lay. “About the syringe and needle in the cigarette packet? And the box in the greenhouse?”

“Why did you have to come into my house, Murdina?” the Reverend sighed heavily. “I mean really, _why_?”

Murdy didn’t reply, but her carefully nonchalant expression faltered as she looked up into his face. Her expression suddenly became wooden and watchful. John edged closer to the doorway at once.

“I don’t _want_ to have to do this, you know.” Duncan murmured, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket. “We’ve been friends, haven’t we? I’m the only one who understands how much you want to get out of this godforsaken village, aren’t I? It’s such a waste for minds like ours to be cooped up here. Didn’t I try and persuade your dad to let you go away to school? And this is how you repay me?”

Murdy’s eyes had followed the movement of his hand; the handle of the knife sliding upwards from the folds of woollen fabric. Without conscious thought John launched himself forward, but Sherlock beat him to it – quick as an adder he darted into the room and seized the man’s wrist. Reverend Duncan let out a hoarse shout, pitching forward onto the rug as he struggled with Sherlock who did not let go of his wrist. He thrashed desperately, his other hand coming to rest on Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock hammered the hand holding the knife repeatedly against the floor. John caught sight of Sherlock’s reddened face and bulging eyes as he silently gasped for air, the way he refused to let go of Duncan’s arm. He stamped heavily on the ministers arm, smoothly sliding the gun from underneath his jacket.

“Drop it.” he said, suddenly strangely calm as he went down on one knee. He pressed the barrel to Reverend Duncan’s arm gently but firmly. “And get your hand off his throat _now,_ please. Give me a reason to shoot you. Believe me mate, _I will._ ”

Duncan went slack almost at once, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand loosened on Sherlock’s throat. John kicked the small sharp kitchen knife well away, and became aware that Murdy was crouched on the other side of the minister, a tarnished paper-knife in her hand. She had it pressed neatly into the upper curve of his ear; her hand absolutely steady.

Sherlock wheezed slightly, massaging his throat and coughing loudly. He rested a knee carelessly on Duncan’s chest and waved a dismissive hand at John’s sharp look in his direction. “I’m fine, don’t be ridiculous. He’s clearly got no idea how to throttle someone efficiently. You can put that down now, Miss Antonelli,” he added, with a sidelong look at the girl.

“He was going to attack me.” Murdy said thoughtfully, leaning forward to peer into the ministers’ face. “We all saw it. He had a knife in his pocket. He asked if anyone knew I was here. Who’s to know that it wasn’t self-defence?” she glanced up at Sherlock with a hard, glittering look in her eye. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t deserve it.”

“Sadly, it’s trickier than you would believe to pull off that particular trick.” Sherlock said casually, after a brief thoughtful pause. “The splatter patterns would be quite incorrect, you see.”

“And also, murder is a bit not good.” John added meaningfully, watching with relief as her hand slowly drew away from the side of Duncan’s head. She dropped the knife with a clatter on the floor and rested her forearms on her knees. “Of course, if he tried to abscond, I might have to shoot him a bit. For the safety of the general public, you see.”

He pressed the barrel of the gun a little harder into the man’s temple, watching the tight grimace intensify with a shameful pang of satisfaction. “You utter, utter wanker. I mean it.”

Reverend Duncan’s chest heaved, and he pressed his lips together fretfully. His beautiful silver hair was mussed and disordered, revealing a carefully concealed bald spot at the crown. His face was blotchy with emotion, and a couple of angry tears slid silently from the corner of his eye and into his beard.

“So, Miss Antonelli,” Sherlock inquired, his voice still a little husky. “Conclusions?”

“He deserves to die.” Murdy said flatly. “He nearly killed four people. He didn’t give a damn who he hurt, so long as he got his wife out of the way.”

“Oh, don’t be dull. Hardly any of the people out there who deserve to die do it in an agreeable or timely fashion.” Sherlock snapped, getting to his feet and dusting off his trousers.

“Conclusions about the _case.”_

Murdy bridled, and wrapped her skinny arms around her knees. She glared up at him from where she was crouched on the floor. “Fine. He wanted to kill his wife. He poisoned four bottles with atropine which he snuck onto the shelves of our shop when he visited it before Christmas, buying the ingredients for Mrs. Duncan’s horrible mince pies. He came back in on the twenty-third, and bought one of the bottles he knew was poisoned so that he’d be able to say that she was a victim no different from the others.”

“Correct, Reverend?” Sherlock asked, conversationally. The minister didn’t reply or open his eyes, his bruised hand cradled closely against his chest. “Oh, well. There will be lots of time to chat with the Aberdeen constabulary later, don’t worry. Speaking of which, let me just give them a ring…”

He tried his mobile, then scowled at the predictable lack of reception before lifting the receiver of the old-fashioned rotary telephone on the desk. After dialling 999, he rolled his eyes and drawled “Yes, police. Well, only the police so far; I’ll keep an open mind about the need for an ambulance….”

After a terse conversation with emergency services, he dropped the receiver down with a clatter. John had expected the man on the floor to struggle or plead at the sound of Sherlock’s report of an attempted murder at the vicarage. Reverend Duncan merely continued to lie on the floor, his face contorted as he silently wept.

Sherlock took a seat in the desk chair and leaned back comfortably. “Alright. Continue.”

“What do you mean? What else is there?” Murdy asked, after a moment in which she was clearly thinking hard. “Miss Argyle was behind the stupid stunt with the box and nearly did this git a massive favour in the process. D’you mean why he did it?”

“Come along, Miss Antonelli.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s right in front of you. Never mind the motive, it will doubtlessly come down to either sex or money. It almost always does. Mrs. Duncan, though – why did she suffer the most, out of all the victims?”

“Because she probably has liver damage from drinking. She couldn’t handle the poison like the others.” Murdy offered slowly, then held up a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to reprimand her. “Oh, shut up. I mean, sorry, hang on. He lied about Mrs. Duncan. She’s not a drunk. He wanted people to _think_ she was a drunk.” 

“Quite. Initially, it appeared that he wished to discredit her. To make it seem as though she would be an unreliable source of information. When in actual fact….”

“Ohhhh….” Murdy said slowly. “Oh, I see now. Quite clever, really. He must have given her a bigger dose of the poison than the others. He didn’t really intend to kill all of them; but he wanted to throw people off the scent. He wanted her to die, and have it look like she didn’t survive because she had a drinking problem. When in actual fact, it was because she’d had a bigger dose than the others. She does have a damaged liver, but it’s because of the larger quantity of poison; not because of alcohol.” she glanced thoughtfully down at Reverend Duncan. “Am I right? Did you put a bit extra in her glass or something?"

Duncan finally opened his watery grey eyes, and directed a glare of pure malevolence towards her. He still didn’t speak.

“I think we can take that as a yes, then.” John observed, drily. “Keep well back from him, Murdy.”

Murdy rolled her eyes, and shuffled backwards a couple of feet. Sherlock was watching her with an intent, curious gaze; almost as if she were a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope.

“You complete bastard,” she said at length to Reverend Duncan. “You nearly destroyed my family and our business. I could care less about Dalziell and Miss Argyle, but they didn’t deserve it either. But poor Mrs. Duncan – how could you do that?”

Reverend Duncan still didn’t speak, continuing to stare at her with clearly mounting rage. John tightened his grip on the gun, praying that he wouldn’t have to use it. And a small part of him, a very small part that he tried to keep tamped down and buried at all times, clamoured to pull the trigger.

“An observation, Miss Antonelli?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully, glancing out of the window to check for the arrival of a police car. “He was right about one thing. You are absolutely _wasted_ in this village."


	23. Chapter 23

Unsurprisingly, it had taken a while before the police had arrived at the vicarage, during which John had continued to crouch uncomfortably on the study floor; the Walther still pressed into the side of Reverend Duncan’s head. Murdy and Sherlock had passed the time attempting to interrogate the man, but he had refused to say a word. 

“Got any thumbscrews?” Murdy inquired of Sherlock, after the first ten minutes. 

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock replied, reprovingly. “Information gathered under torture is unreliable at best. Furthermore, thumbscrews would _completely_ ruin the line of my suit.”

“Dear god.” John muttered, and sighed. “Hang on, is that a car?” 

Rather unexpectedly, it was none other than PC Dalziell who emerged from the police car outside. His hair stuck up a little at one side, and his uniform bore the unmistakable signs of being put on in a hurry. The silver buttons were done up crookedly and when he entered the room John spotted that one of his shoelaces was untied.  
He froze at the sight of the group, swallowing audibly when his round eyes came to rest on Sherlock. His gaze skated over Murdy, who was curled up against one of the overflowing bookshelves, before eventually came to rest on the Walther, which John was still cheerfully holding to Reverend Duncans’ sweating temple. 

“So, er. An attempted murder then?” he asked bravely, taking a step closer and peering down at the prone minister. Duncans eyes were shut tight, his features twisting into a grimace. 

“Yes, indeed.” Sherlock confirmed drily; levering himself out of the desk chair and coming to tower over PC Dalziell. “A little amateurish, but a definite attempt. Miss Antonelli here was the intended victim.”

“I… I see.” Dalziell nodded, and swallowed convulsively. “Are you alright, Murdy?” he asked tentatively, and quailed slightly at the scathing look she gave him. John began to feel a little sorry for the hapless PC; at least he had asked the question. 

“I’m _fine_. I confronted him about how he poisoned everyone and asked him why.” Murdy glared at Duncan’s profile and sniffed. “Then the big git had a go at stabbing me with a kitchen knife he’d sneaked into his pocket. Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson here stopped him. I did have it all under control, mind,” she added, evidently wanting to make this point clear.

PC Dalziell blinked, and bent over the man on the floor. “Reverend Duncan, do you have anything you want to add to all this?”

John waited for the minister to start protesting his innocence or to dissemble in some way. But after a moment the man opened his mouth, cleared his throat and hoarsely whispered _“No.”_

“Um. I suppose you’d better come along to the station with me, then.” Dalziell said, when it became clear that Reverend Duncan wasn’t about to elaborate. “I expect I’d better call in the chaps from Aberdeen for this. Could you, er… would you mind letting me put some cuffs on him, Doctor Watson?”

John reluctantly withdrew the gun, and helpfully prodded Duncan until he was face-down on the dusty carpet. After a certain amount of fumbling, Dalziell withdrew a pair of shiny handcuffs from his pocket and knelt to fasten them around Duncans wrists. Despite the fact that the cuffs were obviously rarely used; the movement had a certain amount of slick professionalism to it. John caught Sherlock’s eye and they shared a loaded glance. Sherlock grinned nastily at the police officer, who was busily tugging Reverend Duncan to his feet.

“Interesting technique there, PC Dalziell. Not _entirely_ textbook procedure, though.”

“What?” Dalziell stammered, keeping a firm hold on the prisoners wrists and the back of his neck. “What do you-“

Sherlock grinned, reaching for his scarf and winding it round his still slightly reddened throat. “I do look forward to hearing all about your time as a Lancaster gangsters henchman, though. Lucas Milroy, was it? Could have been Davey Parsons, though, come to think of it. Never mind, though – we can have a chat about it another time.”

Dalziell’s face went curiously blank. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Mister Holmes.” he said, coldly. “And this is hardly the time for jokes. Come along, Reverend. I think we’d better get you along to the station sharpish.”

Murdy watched the pair leave the study and head down the stairs curiously, a calculating look in her eye. “Is that true?”

“Mm. Undoubtedly.” Sherlock nodded, clearly pleased that the matter had been cleared up. “That little manoeuvre was rather telling; a country plod has very little practice at arresting murderous suspects in their locale, sadly. PC Dalziell, on the other hand, has had rather a lot of experience cuffing and escorting reluctant individuals; especially for a man so early in his police career. He could have been a security guard, of course; or a prison warden. But that grip on the back of Duncan’s neck; the precise positioning of his thumb over the nerve cluster… that’s not official training. That’s a warning of profound and severe pain if the captive attempts to abscond.”

“Whereabouts is the cluster?” Murdy asked interestedly. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer her, but John cut him off hurriedly. “Never mind, it’s very tricky to find without a lot of practice.” 

“Ask Violet some time.” Sherlock advised her, reaching for his scarf. “She knows a thing or two about anatomy.” 

“That’s true.” Murdy conceded. “At the _Womanly Arts_ classes last summer, she did show us the best way how to knee blokes in the-“

“I’m taking him down to the station,” Dalziell called on the threshold of the front door. He didn’t look up at the group, focussing on keeping a firm hold on the silent minister. 

”Seeing as he’s not protesting his innocence just now, he’s going to get locked up overnight and the Aberdeen constabulary can take over tomorrow. It’s Hogmanay eve – nothing’s going to get done tonight. You three will come along and give a statement in the morning?”

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Alright. We’ll come along some time tomorrow. Do not expect us at nine in the morning; you will be bitterly disappointed.”

“Sounds quite interesting, really.” Murdy commented, as they made their way down the stairs. “Giving a statement in a murder investigation.”

Sherlock shook his head sorrowfully at this gross display of naiveté. _“Tragic._ So much to learn.”

Murdy beamed.

***

It was nearly half past six by the time John, Sherlock and Murdy rounded the bend in the path and caught sight of the lit windows of Hilderbogie House. Murdy’s ill-concealed grin and light step caused John to smile in turn; the girl laughed out loud when Sherlock tripped over a snow-covered tree root. The sound was startlingly loud, clear as a bell and John couldn’t help staring when it erupted from her slight frame. 

Sherlock hauled himself upright with the aid of a nearby tree-branch. This caused a minor avalanche to drop from the higher branches; quite a lot of which hit him on the shoulder and head. The look of utter outrage that he directed at the blameless pine was enough to tip John over the edge, too. He and Murdy stopped and dissolved into an acute and prolonged fit of the giggles. 

“When the two of you are _quite_ finished…” Sherlock grumbled, sweeping ahead along the shadowy path. 

Violet and Patrick were still at their easels in the drawing room, despite the late hour. Patrick was looking positively dishevelled, with several smears of white paint on his wrist and in his gleaming hair. His face was hidden as he studied his work. Violet was leaning towards Patrick, a thoughtful look on her face. Her chin was propped on her elbow, which rested on the tray of her easel. 

“-not sure if you’re finished yet, old thing. Not really. Yes, I think you might be finished with this canvas, but I reckon you’ve probably got a few more in you at the moment. I-“ she broke off as she caught sight of Sherlock and John in the doorway. “Give us a minute, blisters, would you? There’s some sandwiches in the kitchen.”

John nodded, glancing at Patrick’s painting briefly as he turned away. Perhaps it was a trick of the light in the darkening drawing room, but the stark landscape seemed even bleaker than the last time he had looked at it. The snow covered hills and lawns had a break, brittle gleam while the shadows cast by the skeletal trees seemed longer and darker than ever. The line of crows were ink-black and gave a mournful, yet slightly menacing air to the whole painting despite their diminutive size. 

Patrick didn’t turn around to face them. His shoulders were a little slumped. Violet caught Johns eye briefly and gave an almost imperceptible dismissive flick of her fingers. 

“Let’s leave them to it.” John murmured, pulling the door closed. “Come on, Murdy. Almost getting stabbed always leaves me pretty peckish, how about you?”

***

Violet joined them in the kitchen twenty minutes later, just in time to grab the last of the foie gras sandwiches from under Sherlock’s fingers. She ignored his sound of outrage and leaned against the ancient stone mantelpiece, nibbling the crusts pensively. 

“Evening, blisters. How goes the sleuthing?”

“It was Reverend Duncan!” Murdy informed her, seeming unable to hold the information in any longer. She was curled up on one of the kitchen chairs, cradling a large mug of tea in her hands. “PC Dalziell took him off to the police station an hour ago, and he as good as confessed to us after we got him on the ground!”

“Golly!” Violet exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Well, that’s what I call a productive afternoon. D’you think Dalziell has things under control?”

“Oh, I should think so.” Sherlock said, waving a hand carelessly before reaching for the nearby biscuit tin. “He won’t be allowed to be directly involved in the investigation, as he was one of the victims. I think we can probably trust him to get the man into custody, if nothing else. Those two bumbling idiots we encountered earlier are hopefully not Aberdeen’s finest examples of law enforcement; one can only hope that marginally more competent officers will take over the case tomorrow.”

“Blimey!” Violet murmured, reaching into her pocket for her cigarette case. “Well, the good news is that Mrs. Duncan seems to be pulling through. Mr. Brodie poked his nose round the door about an hour ago to say that he’d heard from Mr. Mackie that she was awake. Nasty piece of news for her, though.”

“She’s well shut of him.” John said firmly. “He tried to take a kitchen knife to Murdy earlier.”

Violet didn’t exclaim over this fact, but ran a keen eye over Murdy; no doubt making some internal judgement on the girl’s mental state. Murdy didn’t seem to notice this, and to John she seemed more cheerful than he had ever seen her. 

“Your dad rang here earlier.” Violet informed the girl, watching her closely as she exhaled a great cloud of smoke. “He seemed to think that you were in the library here.”

Murdy grimaced slightly, her stockinged toes wriggling on the edge of her chair. “What did you tell him?”

“Mm… well for all I knew, you were up there.” Violet replied vaguely. “Anyway, I told him you’d be coming along to the ceilidh with us. And after that, I would strongly advise you sit him down and let him know what you’ve been up to over the last few days, Murdy. I know you haven’t wanted to worry him, but it’s all going to come out soon enough. It’ll be alright, you know. I’d be bloody proud of you, if I were him.”

Murdy sighed, and glowered slightly into her mug of tea. “He worries about me. He’ll worry even more once he finds out; and then he probably won’t even let me leave the house for a month.”

“If he does, I’ll have a word with him.” Violet promised. “I think you should probably give him the benefit of the doubt, though. Anyway, I think we’d better go and have a look for a dress or something for you to change into – you can’t dance in a big wooly jumper and jeans.”

“I won’t be dancing at _all._ ” Murdy countered mutinously, but allowed herself to be guided towards the kitchen door. Something in the way Violet walked shoulder to shoulder with the girl struck John as oddly protective, and he was quite sure that Violet just wanted an opportunity to talk to Murdy about the days events without an audience. 

The kitchen door swung shut behind them with a thud, leaving the dimly lit room still and quiet. 

“How’s your neck?” John asked, reaching out to pull Sherlock’s shirt collar aside. There were still one or two livid marks on the pale skin, but Sherlock batted him away.

“Don’t fuss. He clearly had no practical experience in throttling anyone. It was sheer dumb luck that he caught me at that angle.” Sherlock sniffed.

“Well that’s something, at least.” John remarked drily. “It would have been terribly embarrassing if you had been done in by an _amateur_. Come on, then. I suppose we better smarten ourselves up a bit before this evening too. I’d much rather see in the new year here though, to be honest.”

***

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom next door to their bedroom to take a shower, while John hastened to shut his gun into one of the desk drawers in the dimly lit room. The fire had been lit at some point earlier in the day, but it was now burning low. John threw another couple of logs onto the embers before turning to dig a clean shirt out of his bag. 

He hadn’t thought to bring anything more formal than his usual button-down shirts and warm jumpers – when they had been leaving Baker Street, he had assumed that they would only need clothing for tramping round the wintry countryside. After settling for an only slightly crumpled white twill shirt, he paused with his fingers halfway to his buttons. 

He stared at the wardrobe. Surely _that_ hadn’t been there earlier?

Sherlock gave him a curious look as he came through the door some thirty seconds later, idly towelling his hair. John was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing intently at the door of the large mahogany armoire. Or, to be more accurate, the item hanging on the ornate iron handle. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and glared at it. “John. Don’t even think about it.”

“Look, I didn’t put it there!” John spluttered, swallowing hard. “I’ve only just noticed it!”

“Well obviously _you_ didn’t leave it there.” Sherlock conceded, and added flatly: “But I’m not wearing it.”

“I never said you should!” John said defensively, turning away and continuing undressing. “I was just… surprised, that’s all.”

“They’re ridiculously archaic.” Sherlock added, striding towards the wardrobe and flinging the offending article onto the sofa. He wrenched open the door and rummaged around before extracting one of his usual dark suits and a pale blue shirt. “Who on earth would go around with bare legs in this kind of weather, anyway?”

“Um. Quite.” John agreed, after a pause. He checked that Sherlock’s back was still turned, and sneaked a look at it. The wool was very dark blue with a greenish tone, subtle lines of black and indigo running through the heavy folds and pleats. He reached out and touched it, surprised by the volume and weight of the material. It had been hanging neatly on a wooden clothes-hanger, along with a dark leather sporran and a pair of finely knit long socks. A post-it note had been attached to the hanger. In a rather familiar messy copperplate, it read: _You can thank me later, foul blot._

“Besides, it’s not as if the Holmes are traditionally entitled to a tartan,” Sherlock muttered, opening a drawer and scanning the selection of socks and underwear inside. “My grandparents adopted the design from some very distant relations who were vaguely Scottish.” 

“You did wear it when you were younger though.” John said in an off-hand manner, stepping away from the sofa as Sherlock turned around. “Is this your old one?”

“Mmm. Probably.” Sherlock shrugged, not bothering to take a closer look. “The sporran belonged to my grandfather. Stop _looking_ at it, John.”

“I’m not!” John protested, manfully struggling to stop grinning. “It’s… um… idle curiosity. I’ll just go and er, I’ll just go and have a quick wash.”

“You do that.” Sherlock said drily, his hands on his hips. 

“Probably doesn’t even fit you any more, anyway.” John said carelessly, on his way out the door. “I mean, you were bloody _nineteen_ when you last wore it. You must have filled out a bit since then. I certainly have.”

The door swung shut behind him, but not before he caught sight of the comically outraged look on the detectives face.

***

Sherlock Holmes was wearing a kilt. Wearing. A kilt.

John’s face was aching slightly from the grin he was wearing as he and Sherlock made their way down the stone staircase into the great hall. He couldn’t help it. He kept stealing sidelong glances at the man as they walked down the stairs. Sherlock was staring ahead, his expression carefully bored. John couldn’t help but notice the way the man was moved was slightly different from usual; the heavy wool swung gently as he walked, undulating with every slight movement of his hips. He wasn’t exactly _swaggering_ but Sherlock definitely gave the impression that he knew just what kind of effect the kilt was having on John. 

Patrick smiled up at them from beside the fireplace in the hall, watching as they descended the last few stairs. He was back to his usual carefully groomed self, a sharply cut dinner jacket visible between the lapels of his long overcoat. One of his eyebrows raised slightly at Sherlock’s apparel but he didn’t comment upon it.

“Are we all ready, you shower of gits?” Violet called cheerfully from the landing above. “We don’t want to be late! Mr Brodie’s going to drive us all over to the hall; he’ll be on his way.”

As it was new years eve, John had been expecting Violet to be wearing something even more dazzling and flamboyant than usual, but when she appeared at the top of the staircase she was wearing a very simple black silk dress. Her hair was caught up in a firm knot at the back of her head, and the only jewellery she wore was a pair of large diamond studs. Even her footwear was more restrained than usual, low leather pumps which looked supple with repeated wear. She caught his eye on the way down the stairs and grinned. 

“One does not risk couture when being flung up and down a church hall by burly Scots, laddie.” She looked back up the stairs and sighed. “Come along, Murdy!”

Murdy appeared reluctantly at the top of the stairs and made her way down them with a poor grace. At first, however, John wasn’t entirely sure that it _was_ Murdy. She wore a knee-length coffee coloured lace dress that couldn’t possibly have belonged to Violet, but the biggest difference by far was her shaggy dark hair, most of which had vanished. He frowned as she made her way across the hall towards the fire, shrugging on her old green coat. The long dark locks had been shorn, and now lay in shining, elegantly arranged flicks that barely reached her ears. Her eyes suddenly seemed huge, no longer hidden by a heavy fringe. Murdy was blushing furiously as she buttoned up her coat. 

“We found one Sherlock’s grandmothers old frocks in one of the wardrobes.” Violet explained, regarding Murdy with a mixture of slight amusement and approval. “Luckily she was a fine boned thing; although I’m fairly sure on her that dress was full-length. Can’t do anything about the boots, sadly.”

“I like your haircut, Murdy.” John said, after a pause. In truth, it unsettled him slightly – her sharp features seemed a little changed by the haircut. Her cheekbones seemed sharper, the angle of her large eyes appeared more pronounced. She almost looked like a different person; in fact quite a lot like the person she was standing next to. 

Sherlock was studying her with interest, but thankfully didn’t say anything beyond: “I can hear the car.”

Violet took Johns arm as they made their way towards the front door. She leant in and murmured “I only volunteered to give her a trim, but she just told me to keep going. Quite a transformation, even if I do say so myself. ”She’s got the beginnings of real chic, if she ever decides to aim for it.”

“So you _weren’t_ trying to turn her into a Sherlock mini-me?” John asked quietly, as they made their way down the snowy steps.

Violet gave a small squeak of laughter. “Entirely coincidental, but highly amusing nevertheless.”

John was going to answer, but was momentarily distracted by the sight of Sherlock sliding into the back seat of the old Jaguar with a brief flash of white knee and thigh through the back slit of the Belstaff. Violet reached out with one gloved finger and touched the corner of his mouth, causing him to startle slightly. 

“Thought I could see a spot of drool.” she said brightly, before climbing into the passenger seat. 

“Ha bloody ha.” John muttered, climbing into the back of the car after Murdy and Patrick.

It was only a short drive from Hilderbogie house to the church hall, which was now brightly lit and crowded with guests. Warm beams of light streamed through the tall narrow windows, illuminating long rectangular patches of deep snow and the silhouettes of aged tombstones in the churchyard. Small candle-lanterns were hanging from the branches of the nearby holly trees, and lined the salt-strewn path that led to the arched doorway. Mr. Mackie was standing near the door, collecting tickets from guests and slinging coats haphazardly into a small cloakroom. He perked up when he saw their group approach, his worn face creasing genially. 

“Well, I have to say that I’ve been wondering when you lot would show up.” he said, peering round their faces with considerable interest. “What on earth has been going on? 

There’s no sign of the Reverend, and there’s rumours flying around that PC Dalziell was spotted marching him into the police station earlier. That cannae be right, can it?”

“Sounds like something that Rab and Pruny made up if you ask me, Mr. Mackie.” Violet said breezily, rummaging around in her clutch for their tickets. “It has all the hallmarks of one of their stories. The little blighters had us all believing that Mr. Dalrymple was running a drugs cartel out of his ice-cream van a few months ago, remember? Oh, _damn!_ ” she broke off, having fumbled with the clasp of her bag and up-ending the contents onto the floor. They all automatically bent to help her retrieve her things and in the upheaval she managed to tangle her fur stole on the buttons of Sherlock’s coat and the zip on John’s coat. Sherlock gave her a reproving look at what he evidently considered were unnecessary theatrics, and Murdy looked dangerously close to giggles. 

Mr. Mackie was thoroughly distracted by this point, however, and didn’t inquire about the case any further. He handed Violet back her embroidered handkerchief and a jewelled compact that had rolled into a corner, and waved them into the crowded hall without further ado. “Drinks in the corner, and there’s a buffet at eleven. I’ll let you get on; it’s the Peebles Bus next and you wouldnae want to miss that, I ken!”

The main church hall was crowded with what looked like the entire population of Hilderbogie village. It was brightly lit, and dancers ranged from tiny children on wobbly legs to nonagenarians. Most of the men were in some variation of Highland dress, in either kilts or tartan trews. A few of the younger men wore their kilts with t-shirts and trainers but most, like Sherlock, wore smart tailored shirts and dark jackets with theirs. The women were mainly in evening dress, some of them sporting their family tartan on sashes or on skirts. John was quite surprised to see the unselfconscious gusto with which all ages were dancing, particularly the teenage boys who were using the floor as an opportunity to charm the ladies. 

He spotted Petty Antonelli after a moment, her hands grasping those of her sister Griz and another pretty dark-haired girl he could only assume was their elder sibling, Toni. They weaved in an undulating line, in and out of arches formed by the raised arms of their partners and the sound of stamping feet was positively thunderous as they returned to their places. John couldn’t help but grin when he spied Rab and Pruny at the end of one line, dragging the unfortunate Pheemy at breakneck speed (and distinctly ahead of the tempo) up and down the hall. Mr. Antonelli himself was sitting to one side and looked reassuringly healthy, and he was laughing aloud as the twins whooped and drummed their feet. Pheemy looked flustered and protested breathlessly as the twins ran, her long mauve flowered skirt billowing behind her.

Murdy sidled up to her father, who performed a double take at her short hair and elegant dress. What they said to each other was inaudible, but Murdy slipped her thin hand into the one her father offered, and leant briefly against his shoulder as they watched their family dance. 

“A spot of Dutch courage, beasties?” Violet asked, breaking into his thoughts. He turned with a smile, accepting one of the small tumblers of whisky she and Patrick had carried from the makeshift bar in the corner. Sherlock accepted his own glass with a nod and took a small sip, scanning the crowd with interest. 

“I doubt Sherlock needs much.” John grinned, elbowing him. “Go on, then. Show us your moves.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a put-upon fashion and held out his hand to Violet. “Come along, ghastly wench. We haven’t danced together in some time. I assume you can keep up?”

“Well of all the bloody cheek!” Violet laughed, and slammed her own glass down on a nearby windowsill. “Right! Challenge _accepted_.”

She seized his hand and pulled him into the fray, Sherlock’s kilt swirling behind him. Patrick leant against the wall next to John and caught his eye. “I rather think we are going to be shown up considerably, Doctor Watson.”

“Story of my bloody life.” John answered cheerfully, without rancour. He took a sip of the whisky, which was peaty and fragrant. It burnt his throat a little on the way down, warming him more than was strictly necessary in the stuffy hall. 

With huge enjoyment, he watched Sherlock and Violet furiously polka up and down the hall; Sherlock’s feet flying and his dark kilt swinging behind him. The action caused several modest flashes of Sherlock’s pale, muscular thighs and John found it rather difficult to tear his eyes away. Violet was flushed, her light silk dress whirling in her wake. Her firmly pinned hair was already beginning to escape its pins, red curls tumbling into her freckled face. She and Sherlock held each others’ gaze, full of a kind of conspiratorial glee. The music coming from the small band on the rough stage seemed to increase in tempo by the minute, the dancers grinning and whooping breathlessly with each turn. Most of the participants seemed to know the steps flawlessly, and John watched a little enviously as Sherlock and Violet seamlessly joined a group of dancers in a complex weaving pattern.

“Do you dance much, Patrick?” he asked, draining his glass and nodding at the crowd. “I mean, like this lot.” 

Patrick smiled and shrugged slightly. “A little. As you know, I am quite interested in Scottish culture; so I know the steps to a few of of the more popular reels. I only wish I had a tartan to wear. There is a Singh family tartan, but it’s a frankly rather gaudy lavender and green affair.” He nodded at Sherlock, who was now linking elbows with Violet and positively flinging her towards her next partner. “Your Mr. Holmes cuts quite a dash in his.”

“Mmm.” John said vaguely, his eyes wandering back to the detective. He grinned as Sherlock seized an elderly lady by the hand and briskly waltzed her up and down a short avenue of dancers. “He taught me to waltz once, a long time ago.” he said without thinking, and winced. 

Patrick studied him curiously.

“It was before my wedding, you see.” John admitted, after a moment. For some reason, probably because of their previous conversation by the drawing-room fire, he felt that he owed Patrick some kind of confidence. “It was… I mean, we never danced somewhere like this. It was in our living room, with the curtains drawn. I was a bit embarrassed and he barely spoke a word the whole time.”

Patrick gave him a kind look that was full of unexpected understanding. “Dancing behind drawn curtains is something I am all too familiar with, John.”

“Who’s your pal, Doctor Watson?” a sly, familiar voice asked. John looked around and startled slightly when a small sharp elbow was pressed into his side. He looked down to see Rab Antonelli in a slightly crumpled pink party dress, grinning up at him roguishly. She stood on tiptoe and hissed “He looks like one a those laddies on the front of Pheemy’s romance novels!” in his ear. 

“Oh, god.” John laughed aloud, turning back to Patrick. He wished that he could apologise in advance for what he was about to unleash on the unsuspecting Singh, who was smiling politely down at Rab. “Patrick, this is Murdy’s little sister Rab.”

“Want to dance, Mister?” Rab asked at once, grabbing the hand that Patrick held out to shake. She didn’t let go. “It’s the Cumberland Square Eight next.”

“I’d be delighted, Miss Antonelli.” Patrick said kindly, clearly not noticing the dangerous glint in her eye. “I’m not sure if I recall all the steps, but I’m sure-“

“Oooh, don’t worry about _that!_ ” Rab grinned, towing him into the fray.

Pruny suddenly erupted from behind a pillar and sagged slightly when she saw John on his own. “That bint! I said _I_ was going to get to him first!”

“I think he’s a bit old for either of you, to be honest, Pruny.” John pointed out with a grin. 

The girl wrinkled her nose in a disgruntled fashion and swung herself up on the windowsill next to him. She idly drummed her heels on the heavy Victorian radiator beneath, in time to the fast-paced reel. Together, they watched the groups of dancers. John’s eyes widened in slight alarm as dancers in circles of four began to spin so fast that the women were slowly lifted off their feet, supported on the shoulders of the men on either side. 

“It’s not fair. She got him for the helicopter dance!” Pruny complained, watching her sister on the other side of the room. John scanned the hall and after a moment he spied Patrick looking slightly alarmed as Rab held on to him tightly; laughing raucously and kicking her legs as she flew through the air. To his faint surprise, he spotted Murdy Antonelli on Patrick’s other side, gripping his other shoulder and that of Mr. Brodie. 

Given Murdy’s repeated declarations that she wasn’t planning on dancing at all, he watched her curiously. Unlike Rab, she moved with ease as her slight frame was spun higher and higher above the floor; her dark flicks of hair sweeping and curling around her head. The borrowed delicate lace dress twisted around her long skinny legs, incongruous against the heavy black boots she still wore. Her expression was oddly intent.

It took John a second or two to understand the sudden heavy thump and chorus of gasps, shortly followed by the music stopping abruptly. The crowd seethed, the momentum of the dance slowing before several more gentle thuds we heard as the women regained their feet. The band got to their feet, craning their necks to get a closer look at one section of the crowd. 

“What’s happened?” John asked Pruny, who was scrambling to her feet on the windowsill. Her eyes were wide with curiosity. She shook her head with irritation, and jumped up and down once or twice in an attempt to see over the heads of the people below. 

“I can’t see!” she complained. “Oh! Oh, hang on! Oh! Oh, she _never_ …..”

Pruny’s jaw sagged, her face wonderstruck. She seemed speechless with delight. 

“What? What’s happening?” John demanded, staring at her. 

“Ooooh, it’s _brilliant!_ ” Pruny sighed. “Come on, let’s go and get a closer look!” 

She leapt down from the windowsill with a crash, and grabbed hold of his hand. “Come _on!_ ”

At first it didn’t seem that they were going to get through the throng, but Pruny began to prod guests in the back. “’Scuse me! ‘Scuse me! Come on, this laddie is a doctor! We need tae get through!”

This ploy worked admirably, and the initially irritated crowd began to part swiftly. John caught Sherlock’s eye at one point, to his left among the crowd. He was a little puzzled by the look of slight glee on the detective’s flushed face. Their gaze broke as Pruny tugged his arm again, pulling him deeper into the fray. 

“Is she alright?” he heard a tall bearded man murmur. 

“Och, dad! It’d take more than that to polish _her_ off!” came a whispered reply from a gap-toothed seven-year old who was jumping up and down in a futile attempt to get a closer look. 

“Here’s Doctor Watson, let us… I mean him though!” Pruny shouted, and eventually the last few people got out of the way. Lying on the floor, looking dishevelled and utterly furious was none other than Miss Argyle. She was scarlet-faced as she pressed one of her hands to the back of her head. A large black boot lay discarded on the floorboards nearby, clearly the source of her injury. 

“Goodness! Um, Miss Argyle… can I take a look? Are you alright?” John asked in as solicitous a manner as he could manage. (Don’t fucking laugh!)

She didn’t seem to hear him, her gaze directed a little off to the right. Following her line of sight, John caught sight of Murdy, face buried in her hands and shoulders shaking. She was wailing quietly against Petty’s shoulder, looking small and slightly comical with one socked foot next to her remaining heavy boot.

“Oh, don’t fuss yourself child!” An older woman said comfortingly, reaching out to squeeze Murdy’s shoulder. “It’s alright; anyone can see it was an accident.”

“Accident? _Accident_?” Miss Argyle hissed at once. “That little madam _clearly_ did it on purpose!”

“Oh, come now!” Mr. Antonelli countered, pushing his way through the throng as politely as he could and holding out a hand to her. “We’ve all seen accidents happen during the Square Eight. I’m terribly sorry about your head Miss Argyle, though. Can I help you up?”

“No you may not!” she glared, suddenly noticing that the hem of her skirt had ridden up above her knees and tugging it down sharply. “I have had enough of you accursed Antonellis in our village. We all know what you are! Thugs, murderers and poisoners, every one of you!”

“No we’re not!” Pruny insisted, looking outraged. “Well not _yet_ , anyway.”

“Pruny, shush!”

“We all know that they were behind the poisonings!” Miss Argyle said, wrenching herself to her feet. “Everyone here knows that! And now I’ve been _assaulted_ , once again by them. What is it going to take for someone to lock them up?”

“Come now, Miss Argyle…” Mr. Brodie said placatingly, holding out a hand. “Look, you’ve had a fright and I’m sure your head is a bit sore. Look at poor wee Murdy, she’s obviously very sorry. Why don’t I help you home?”

“WHY DON’T YOU ALL SEE IT?” Miss Argyle shouted, insensed. She stared around at the crowd, who were looking increasingly embarrassed and shocked. “THAT LITTLE BITCH NEARLY KILLED ME! JUST LIKE HER FILTHY WOP OF A FATHER!”

“Miss Argyle!” Mr. Brodie gaped. “Come along now, you’re not yourself. There’s no call for that sort of language!”

“I’m…so…so….sorry!” Murdy rasped, finally dropping her hands from her face. “Oh, Miss Argyle! I didnae do it on purpose, I swear! Is your head alright?”

John thought he heard the small girl from earlier mutter: “Nobody’d say _her_ head was alright at the best of times.”

John studied Murdy curiously as she clung to her older sister. She seemed to have dropped her shoulders as low as they could go, and hunched them slightly so that she looked a good four inches shorter than she actually was. She was visibly trembling, her fingers shaking as she wiped at her crumpled red face. Her eyes were enormous and pleading, and her mussed hair made her look even more childlike and fragile. The missing boot and the wrinkled green striped sock on her foot added an odd sort of pathos to the scene. Real tears were pouring silently down her face, which impressed John considerably. Several people were already gazing at her sympathetically and murmuring compassionate words in her direction.

“Miss Argyle, I’ve never poisoned anyone in my life.” Hector Antonelli said, a little stiffly. “And I’ll thank you not to use terms like that in front of my girls.”

“Liar! You are a nest of vipers in our midst!”

“That’s enough now, Miss!” An elderly man protested. “Really Kathy, I’m surprised at you! You’re supposed to be setting an example for the children.”

“You shut up, George Foster!” Miss Arygle hissed. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. This lot should be cast out of our village, for the good of everyone in it! They nearly killed me, and Jimmy, and Alice Duncan-”

“Actually, _you_ are the individual who came closest to killing Alice Duncan, Miss Argyle!” Sherlock said cheerily. He sidled through the crowd that now seemed to be leaning away slightly from the woman, swiftly followed by an intrigued looking Violet. “No doubt you will have heard that she is back in hospital, following a fall into the river last night. Would you like to tell everyone here how you are responsible for that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she glared. “And it’s your word against mine, anyhow. Nobody knows you from Adam, you dirty creature. Who do you think people will believe?”

“He’s that famous detective laddie from London!” Rab explained loudly to the crowd. “An’ he’s one of the Holmeses, right?”

“Thank you, Miss Antonelli.” Sherlock said, giving her a reproving glance. “Miss Argyle, your unfortunate fiancé has the poisoner in custody as we speak. I am personally looking forward to seeing his face when he has to find room for you in the cells too.”

He grinned around at the crowd, clearly revelling in the attention of at least a hundred pairs of eyes. “I’ll spare you the details, but your neighbourhood schoolteacher tricked the unfortunate Mrs. Duncan into endangering her own life as a means to incriminate the Antonelli family. Alice Duncan was already in a weakened state, and she almost died as a result. She probably would have, too, if it wasn’t for Murdina here. She leapt into the water straight away, without thought of the danger to her own person. Hardly the act of someone hell-bent on homicide.” 

Hector Antonelli’s eyes widened as he looked down at his daughter, who had suddenly gone very still. 

Miss Argyle blanched slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she asserted again. 

“Of course you don’t.” Sherlock said lazily. “But I’m quite sure that the Aberdeen constabulary will be paying close attention to what I have to say on the matter tomorrow morning.”

Miss Argyle opened and closed her mouth several times. Her hand stole to the back of her head, smoothing down her disarranged pale hair. She swallowed hard and looked around at the people around her, taking in the shocked and disapproving faces of her neighbours. John realised that several of the people present were undoubtedly the parents of children she taught. Peeping between the legs and around the sides of several adults were various children; all of whom looked positively gleeful 

“I’m going home.” she said eventually, turning towards the door. “I’ve been seriously injured and I need to go home.”

“Yes, good idea.” Sherlock approved. “You will want to be well-rested for your interview with the finest detectives Aberdeen can provide tomorrow, after all. It will be the day after new years’ though; I doubt they will be feeling terribly sympathetic towards anyone.” 

“Get out of my way. I’m going home. WOULD YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY!” she blindly pushed her way into the crowd; people shying away slightly as she passed. She disappeared through the front door of the hall without a backwards glance, leaving clearly awestruck guests in her wake. 

“I always knew she was a bit of a battlexe, but I always thought wee Linda was exaggerating!” John heard one woman say to another. “Do you think it’s true?”

“I don’t know.” her friend replied, staring after Miss Argyle. “I reckoned my Fraser was making it up when he told me some of the things she said in class, but now I’m not so sure. Imagine calling poor Mr. Antonelli such a thing!”

“Shocking, that’s what it is. And poor little Murdy, look at her! She’d never hurt a fly.” 

“Hector Antonelli has always done his best with those girls. It’s appalling, how he’s been treated. Who did they say had been arrested?”

“It’s not fair!” John heard Pruny mutter. She was glaring round the hall, taking in the startled conversations and curious looks. She crossed her arms and stared up at him. “It’s _stupid_ , that’s what it is. Ten minutes ago most of them still believed Dad was behind the poisonings. They’ve only got what you said to go on, but they’re so bloody prepared to believe the worst. Fair enough, it’s great that people don’t think we’re the bloody Borgias any more, but it’s so _stupid_!”

“Village life, Miss Antonelli.” Sherlock sighed, looking around with disapproval and interest. “Isn’t it _ghastly?_ ”

“Incidentally, did I hear that you were telling people about an ice-cream van drugs cartel?” John inquired innocently. 

Pruny’s face turned slightly pink. “That was an honest mistake.”

“And it had nothing to do with the fact that he once overcharged you for a ninety-nine last May.” Petty pointed out drily, coming over to join them. She smiled tightly at Sherlock and John. “I really hope you two can back up those claims, by the way.”

Sherlock looked faintly outraged at this, but John nodded as reassuringly as he could manage. “We will. Absolutely.”

After a minute or two, the band took up their instruments again. The guests dispersed a little, drifting over to the makeshift trestle-table bar or back into the next dance. Hector Antonelli was deep in conversation with Murdy, who was appeared much more cheerful than she had done during Miss Argyle’s onslaught. She was looking up at her father’s face with a mixture of grumpiness and affection as he grasped her shoulders. He seemed intent on ensuring that she was in one piece, never mind that her adventure in the river had taken place many hours before. He guessed that she was going to leave out the details concerning Reverend Duncan until they were safely home. 

“Blimey!” Violet remarked, taking John’s arm and joining him in his study of Murdy. “That was bloody _masterful._ ”

On John’s other side, Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Certainly. When you think about timing, alignment and centrifugal force… not bad at all.”

“I know! I’d probably have needed a pencil and paper to work out the boot trajectory. And the tears! Beautiful!” Violet exclaimed. “Just the right hint of incipient snot.”

“Looks like she’s about to have a serious chat with her dad…” John added, watching Murdy and Mr. Antonelli heading towards a table in the corner. “He doesn’t look too appalled, though.”

“Excellent.” Violet grinned and turned to Sherlock. “Right. Buzz off, you rotten article; I’m about to take your doctor for a spin.”

“Oh, er- Violet, I’d love to but I really don’t know the ste-“ John protested feebly, powerless in the force of her smile. 

“Nonsense, doesn’t matter at all.” Violet replied blithely, pushing him into one of the long lines of dancers that were already forming and turning to face him. “Sherlock, if you’re planning on continuing to glower at me you might as well join in; they’re short of dancers in that line.”

With a poor grace, Sherlock elbowed his way into the line, next to John and facing a furiously blushing Pheemy Antonelli. John glanced nervously up and down the line, which formed a long corridor from the top to the bottom of the hall. The dancers all seemed to be limbering up slightly, rolling their shoulders and flexing their calves before the first note was struck. 

Sherlock leant down and murmured: “It’s the Orcadian version of a dance called Strip the Willow. I hope you’re feeling energetic.”

Before John could answer, Violet sprang forward with a devilish grin and seized his arm; spinning him helplessly, faster and faster. He was worryingly dizzy by the time she pushed him towards Pheemy, who was ready to swing him around as Violet did the same with Sherlock, letting out a loud whoop. It took several false starts, but John finally got the hang of the complex pattern around halfway down the line of dancers. It was all further complicated by the fact that there were uneven numbers of men and women, and as the tempo sped up John wasn’t at all sure whose hand he should be reaching for next. He was out of breath and sweating freely after less than a minute. His fellow dancers cheered and shouted good-naturedly, pushing and prodding him towards the correct partner when necessary. In the heat of the hall and the frantic pace of the dance, Violet moved like a dervish. As the music grew faster and faster, she laughed aloud, twirling and spinning, catching his eye conspiratorially as their hands met once again. They were both completely breathless and dishevelled by the end of the dance, giggling helplessly as they ran the length of the hall; shoes thundering on the worn boards. 

As the last notes of the tune died away, the crowd seemed to deflate slightly. After the exertion of the dance, many people ducked outside to cool down and catch their breath, or headed for the bar to quench their dry throats. Sherlock appeared after a second or two, his face glowing and his dark curls sticking to his temples. He was only slightly out of breath, but he stripped off his jacket and discarded it lazily on a nearby before leaning against the wall next to John, his elbows propped back on the windowsill. The angle of his legs made the fabric of his kilt slip and drape over his thighs, revealing a sliver of white thigh. John coughed slightly, and attempted to tear his eyes away.

Violet mopped her brow and laughed breathlessly, turning towards the bar. “Well I’m in serious need of refreshment. Back in a bit.”

John leaned in to Sherlock’s shoulder, waiting until he glanced down and met his eye. “In case you’re wondering, I _really_ like the kilt.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a small, sly smile. “Oh, yes? I hadn’t noticed.”

Their shared gaze stretched on for several seconds, before Sherlock abruptly grasped John’s forearm and tugged him back onto the floor. The band had reappeared and were beginning to play once more, in a much quieter, sedate fashion than the previous reel. The music was melodic and lilting, with a drifting sweetness. John blushed furiously as Sherlock wrapped one arm around his shoulders, and pulled Johns’ own around the small of his back. 

“Um… Sherlock. Not that I mind, but we’re in the country and I don’t really want to scandalise the locals….” he murmured, his fingers squeezing Sherlock’s side; feeling slightly damp skin under fine cotton. 

Sherlock looked down at him with a familiar expression of fondness and impatience. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Men and women have been dancing together all evening; it happens all the time when there are unequal number of partners.”

John risked a glance around the hall, taking in the handful of other couples on the floor. A woman taking her husbands arm nearby gave him a smile and a nod before taking her position for the dance. A few eyes had followed them onto the floor, but there was no shocked reaction as far as he could see. 

“Stop worrying, John.” Sherlock said quietly. “Stop thinking. Just move with me.”

And as the music started, John suddenly thought of that awkward afternoon behind closed curtains, years before. Sherlock leading him through the steps of the waltz in a distant, nonchalant fashion. Pretending that it was just another task he had taken on for planning the wedding. John had been grumpy and embarrassed about the whole thing, and had even snapped at Sherlock once or twice when he repeatedly got the steps wrong. He suddenly wondered what had really been going through the mans mind at the time. They were still aching a little from Sherlock’s sudden return; even before John had consciously started _wanting_ Sherlock, the air was still full of vague regrets, lost time and what might have been. What had he been thinking, as he guided John around the room to quiet music, in preparation for the arms of someone else?

“I’m so sorry.” John said slowly, his throat feeling a little thick. “Sherlock, I-“

“Move.” Sherlock said again, his hand covering John’s own where it rested on his waist. John fell silent, not entirely sure what he had been about to say. 

This was a different dance from the earlier fast-paced reels. Couples moved slowly and rhythmically round the floor, arms around shoulders as they executed slow turns. Sherlock led confidently, and John stopped worrying about where his feet were going within seconds. Their eyes were inexorably drawn back to each other at the end of each smooth turn; hands meeting seamlessly once more. After a minute, John was only dimly aware of the hall and the other guests. He could only hear the gentle rhythm of fiddle and drum, and feel the way his hands were slipping across the thin shirt on Sherlock’s warm back and moving through his large hands. He slid one palm down onto Sherlock’s hip, feeling the tight pleats of his kilt over lean flesh. Sherlock’s eyes were intent as they held his gaze. He moved with a strange, agile grace as he guided John around the floor; the length of his body pressed warm and firm against Johns. 

“I wish that this was the first time we danced.” John murmured as the music died away, his hands slowly slipping down Sherlock’s sides. 

The detective blinked and shook his head slightly, running his palm around the back of John’s neck. “That doesn’t matter. Let’s just make sure that it’s not the last.” 

John nodded, reluctantly stepping back as more people flooded onto the dancefloor. He slipped his arm back around Sherlock’s waist and squeezed him as they made their way towards the bar. Violet was standing next to the rough-hewn trestle table, sipping a tumbler of whisky and she waved and smiled as they approached. “Hello there, my fabulous monsters. You’ve been missing all the fun – I rather think that Patrick is about to cause some kind of riot.”

John accepted the cold beer she passed him and took a long swig, scanning the dancers in front of them. After a moment, he spotted Patrick hand-in-hand with Petty Antonelli on one side, and her sister Toni on the other. Both were casting him rather intrigued glances, as well as Mr. Brodie who was facing him in the centre of another group of three. John supposed he could hardly blame them; even he could admit that Patrick was looking rather dashing in his black dinner jacket, bow-tie undone and his hair slipping loose across his shoulders as he moved. He seemed to be enjoying himself, too – he was smiling as he linked arms with the two pretty girls, and he laughed aloud when Mr. Brodie stamped his feet on the floor, kilts flying. 

“Nothing like a good dance to raise the spirits. Well, dancing, booze and copious admiration.” Violet said approvingly. “Speaking of which, there’s a chap over there with the most delicious biceps and he’s been working up the nerve to ask me to dance for the last half hour. I think I’ll go and put him out of his misery.”

Sherlock and John watched her saunter towards a blushing young farmer, a beaming smile on her face. He fiddled nervously with his sporran as she whispered something in his ear, before offering his arm so quickly he nearly elbowed her in the chest. Violet laughed and ducked just in time, before leading him towards the floor.

“Nearly midnight.” John observed, glancing at his watch. “D’you fancy another drink or-“ he trailed off, frowning. Violet had paused on the edge of the crowd, the smile fading suddenly from her face. She was staring towards the doorway of the hall, and she dropped the arm of her partner without seeming to notice what she was doing. The farmer looked down at her in consternation, following her gaze and frowning curiously at whatever he saw in the doorway. 

It took a second or two for John to see what was causing Violet’s eyebrows to draw together and her mouth to harden. Four or five people drifted between him and the carved stone archway that led to the door of the church hall, blocking his view. Sherlock had observed the scene as well, and with his height advantage he saw the cause before John did. 

He let out a slow groan, and tipped his head back in utter disgruntlement. “Oh, _god_. The bloody ghost at the feast.”

“What?” John asked distractedly, peering round a couple of brawny farmhands. “What do you-“

He stopped suddenly, the cause of Sherlock’s dismay all too clear. There, standing just inside the hall, was none other than Mycroft Holmes.


	24. Chapter 24

He was peeling off his dark leather gloves, white flecks of snow dusting the shoulders of his beautifully cut overcoat. The elder Holmes brother cast his eyes around the hall, taking in the scene of cheerful revelry with a certain amount of weary distaste. He locked eyes with Violet briefly, and gave her a stiff nod which she did not return. He looked tired as he looked around the crowd, his thin clever hands moving to tuck his gloves into his coat pocket. 

The crowd seethed and swirled through the reel, and Mycroft was just turning away from the dancefloor when he stopped dead; his gaze trained on the group weaving towards him from the distant corner. Patrick was dancing with Petty Antonelli, laughing at something she had just said. Petty was smiling charmingly up at him, her cheeks flushed. Patrick’s hair was tumbling into his face, and she reached up to push it back behind his ear in a distinctly coquettish fashion. 

John experienced a strange ache as he watched Mycroft blink rapidly, before assuming a carefully blank expression. His feelings towards Sherlock’s brother had always been rather complicated – being introduced to the man via kidnapping had probably got them off to a bad start. He always got the impression that Mycroft never really understood why Sherlock wanted John in his life. Admittedly, John had wondered this himself on many occasions, particularly in the early days. But it still rankled a little when someone else did. Mycroft’s almost total silence during Sherlock’s long absence had not improved matters. John knew that whatever Mycroft had been expecting to see in the busy church hall, it had not included Patrick dancing and laughing with someone else. He was rooted to the spot, and John felt he could almost see the effect reverberate through him. He inhaled sharply, feeling an unusual, acute pang of sympathy for Mycroft. 

Patrick was rapidly moving towards their end of the hall, his arms raised and hands linked with Toni and Petty. He looked unguarded, John thought – he seemed momentarily lost in the movement of the dance. Perspiration was beading his forehead, long strands of his hair sticking slightly to his cheek. He twirled Petty several times, smiling as she laughed aloud and grabbed at his forearms in an attempt to keep her balance. 

Mycroft seemed incapable of movement. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but his hands had stopped halfway to his coat pocket; gloves dangling loosely from his fingers. John could feel the inevitable moment approaching, and was unable to look away. It was probably only a matter of seconds but it seemed to stretch on endlessly – Patrick moving through the dance while Mycroft watched him, utterly motionless. 

The reel finished with a dizzy flourish. Patrick began to move towards the bar; his eyes seeking out first John and then Sherlock with a smile. He caught sight of Violet too, and frowned a little at her wide-eyed expression. She winced slightly, then jerked her head minutely towards the tall man on the edge of the dancefloor.

Patrick stopped dead. John watched his dark eyes widen, mouth opening a fraction in surprise. His hands, which had been busily re-tying his hair back in place at the nape of his neck, dropped to his sides. He swallowed hard, then seemed to force himself to close the gap between them; a painfully casual smile on his face. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“My goodness, Mycroft… this is certainly a surprise. I mean, I… I didn’t expect to see you here.” Patrick said, hesitantly. He was a little breathless as he spoke, the colour high in his cheeks.

“Likewise. I finished some business rather earlier than I had expected, and thought I would drop in to give my compliments of the season to Sherlock.” Mycroft seemed to attempt a smile, but with even less success than Patrick. “I didn’t expect to see you.” he added bluntly. 

“Oh.” Patrick said, his expression suddenly shuttered. He nodded, and glanced around; looking anywhere but at Mycroft. “I see. Well, your brother is over there by the bar. Excuse me, I might just go and get some air.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away; not looking back. He didn’t respond to Violet calling after him, or Mr. Brodie’s cheery offer of a drink as he passed. His back was rigid as he disappeared through the archway, and John found himself glowering at the elder Holmes as he turned to greet them. 

“Good evening, Sherlock. John. Enjoying the local customs?” he asked, with a half-hearted smile. 

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “You really _didn’t_ know he was here. How remiss of you.” 

“I’ve been somewhat busy with the Syrian situation.” Mycroft retorted, turning towards the bar. He scanned the array of whisky bottles blankly and accepted a generous measure without thanks to the barman. 

John watched Mycroft take a long sip of his drink, coolly observing the crowd. After the brief exchange with Patrick, the elder Holmes brother seemed to gather his wits almost instantly. John felt a brief surge of anger, remembering Patrick’s face in front of the drawing room fireplace. He recalled the chilly landscape still drying on its’ easel back at Violet’s house and clenched his fist at his side. 

“I think I’m going to go join Patrick. I could do with a breath of air too.” he said, putting down his beer bottle with perhaps a little too much force on a nearby table. “’Scuse me.”

Sherlock sighed, letting go of John’s waist reluctantly. “Oh, very well. If you must.” He scanned the room thoughtfully. After a moment his eyes lit up with a sudden flash of cheerful malice when he caught sight of the estate manager. He waved at the man enthusiastically, and Mr. Brodie looked a little surprised but pleased as he made his way towards Sherlock. “Mr. Brodie! Care for a drink? Look who’s just turned up unexpectedly….”

***

John almost wished he could stay and watch the no doubt amusingly awkward reunion between Mycroft and Mr. Brodie (although, let’s face it Watson, the less you think about the Eulalie incident the better for your mental state). But the blind way in which Patrick swept from the hall troubled him slightly, and he sped up as he passed through the archway that led back out into the snowy churchyard; briefly pausing to grab his heavy waxed jacket from the pile in the cloakroom. The darkness of the quiet yard blinded him momentarily and he blinked repeatedly, willing his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The lanterns that lined the path had burnt low, and he squinted around himself as he tried to catch sight of where Patrick might have gone. Snow was beginning to slowly flicker through the air once more, and after a glance at the path he decided to follow the freshest looking set of footprints, which led around the side of the hall and towards the oldest part of the churchyard. 

It grew darker still as John scrunched through the fresh snowfall that was coating the ground, and he weaved between ancient gravestones that listed tiredly in the drifts. Scanning the expanse of snow with little success, he was about to retrace his path when he heard a low voice call his name.

“John!” Violet raised an arm in salute, catching his attention. She was huddled in her heavy coat and furs on a worn stone bench, almost hidden by an overgrown yew tree. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring anything bracing and suitably warming like a good brandy, did you?”

“Sorry, ‘fraid not.” John replied, making his way over to her. He hadn’t noticed Violet slipping out of the church hall, but he concluded that she must have done as Mycroft came to greet them at the bar. “And to be honest, even though it might make you feel a bit warmer, brandy would actually lower your core temperature.”

“That’s right, you odious tick.” Violet muttered darkly as he rounded the tree. “Spoil my illusions.”

John wasn’t entirely surprised to see Patrick sitting next to her, sheltering from the falling snow under the branches of the massive yew. He was relieved to see that the young man was wearing his heavy alpaca overcoat and scarf, but his heart sank a little when Patrick didn’t look up. 

“I’ll leave you two to it…” John murmured. “Just, um- just wanted to make sure that…”

Patrick blew on his bare fingers and chafed them idly, before finally meeting his gaze. He half-smiled, but it was a pale imitation of the one he had worn while dancing just a few minutes ago. “You’re very kind to come and look for me, John.”

John shrugged a little uncomfortably, staring at Patricks beautiful, but no doubt freezing hands. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He sighed, then settled for: “He’s a complete twat. I’m so sorry.”

Patrick’s smile seemed slightly more genuine, and after a moment he moved a little further along the bench towards Violet, making room for John next to the overhanging tree. 

John deliberated for a moment, before taking a seat. It didn’t seem as though Patrick wanted him to leave, and a quick glance at Violet’s face confirmed this. He sank down onto the chilly, damp granite and sighed quietly, taking in the shadowy churchyard and the splashes of colour cast by the stained glass windows on the snow. 

“I thought that coming here would mean getting away from it all, you know.” Patrick said quietly, after a long pause. “From what he had told me, he was planning on being away in Switzerland for the next few days.”

“I swear I didn’t invite him.” Violet said vehemently. “You do believe me, don’t you? I know I said I reckoned you should talk to him again, but I’d never muck about like that behind your back, old thing.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Patrick replied, wrapping his arms around his torso and tucking his hands under his arms in a vain attempt to warm them. He cast a sidelong, affectionate glance at her but it ebbed away quickly. “I was just being rather a colossal fool for a moment or two. You see, I thought…” he swallowed hard. “Well, I mean, occasionally, he would just… appear. I mean, he would just appear as if out of nowhere. He would know where I was, even I wasn’t quite so sure of my surroundings. So when I saw him in there, watching me…”

“You thought he’d decided to surprise you.” John supplied, with a faint wince. 

Patrick gave a small, bitter laugh and shook his head. “As I said, I was a fool. When we last spoke, it was quite clear that we were parting ways. I don’t know why I would imagine he would suddenly decide to sweep in and spend New Year’s Eve with me. A stupid, romantic notion; no wonder he despises me.”

“Nobody despises you.” Violet glared at him, nudging him sharply with her knee. “Don’t be a twit. Nobody could. You’re a fucking treasure, Patrick; and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

John wasn’t entirely sure that he could call Patrick a _treasure_ with a completely straight face. But he nodded staunchly and nudged him in what he hoped was a supportive fashion. “It was completely understandable, mate. I know what he’s like; he _does_ bloody appear out of nowhere like some kind of… some kind of fucking pinstripe _genie._ If I were you and I saw him out of the blue like that, of course I’d think the same.” 

(Never mind that you always start swearing like a sailor with Tourettes at the mere thought of him kidnapping you yet again. What are the odds that he’d find someone who’d actually _like_ it?!) It was clear from a shared glance with Violet that they shared this sentiment; but after all, they both knew that Patrick was a bit eccentric. 

Patrick stared grimly at the stark expanse of snow and dark stones in front of him, his jaw clenched. It gave his handsome face a sombre, sculpted quality. “I don’t want to go back in there. Not… not yet, anyway. You two, though – it’s nearly midnight. Please go back inside, you don’t want to miss-”

Violet took hold of Patrick’s wrist and pulled his arm around her own shoulders before nestling into his side. “Shut up and huddle.” 

John nudged Patrick, who wore a small but genuine smile at the way Violet was elbowing him into a more comfortable position. “I’ve had enough of dancing for one evening.” he lied, ignoring the small soppy part of him that that had vaguely hoped for a kiss from Sherlock at midnight.

“And some bugger always starts reciting bloody Robbie Burns at these occasions.” Violet sighed disapprovingly. “One would think that a few rousing verses of Auld Lang Syne would be sufficient. But there’s something in the soul of a Scotsman of a certain age that requires lengthy bardic recitation when everyone else is simply longing to go home.”

“I rather like Burns.” Patrick remarked, in a determinedly airy fashion. “He was certainly romantic, but with a certain edge.” He laughed suddenly, and a little sharply. “Do you know, I once attempted to read _Ae Fond Kiss_ to Mycroft?”

Slowly, in tandem, Violet and John both turned to goggle silently at Patrick. Thankfully he didn’t seem to notice the incredulous glance they shared.

“Um.” Violet cleared her throat noisily, and delved in her pocket for her cigarette case. “Well. Gosh.”

John wasn’t entirely sure whether to pursue this line of enquiry, given that Patrick was still clearly upset. (And let’s just dwell for a moment on the mere idea of someone reading love poetry to Mycroft bloody Holmes? I mean… how on earth could that have happened in any universe, anywhere?)

“I only managed the first three lines before he look the book from my hands and kissed me. He had his hands in my hair and he said ‘I adore you, Mr. Singh; but kindly do not appal me with poetry in the Scots vernacular again.’”

Patrick related this utterly calmly, but the hand that rested on his knee clenched hard. He gazed fixedly ahead, and John recognised that technique; the one where you stared hard and focussed on something, anything, because occasionally it did work. Occasionally it did stop the treacherous tears from spilling over.

Violet held her gold lighter to a coal black cigarette and sighed deeply as she exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. The ember glowed fierce and red and she distractedly flicked ash into the pristine snow. “I once recited _Jabberwocky_ in its’ entirety to a room full of Greek Orthodox priests. I did a bloody good job of it too, given that I was translating it simultaneously; and I did the actions too. I think my impression of the Jabberwock was a bit too bloodcurdling for some though. And at least three of the venerable gentlemen in the front row fell off their seats when I did the ‘Callooh! Callay!’ bit. You may be wondering how I got myself into such a tricky spot, of course. You see it all started when I accompanied this rather dashing fisherman called Spirodon and his kleptomaniac sister Lugarezia on a skiff between the islands of-“

She cheerfully chattered on, and John couldn’t quite bring himself to believe most of it; particularly the bit with the murderous bishop and the hunt for missing string of pearls. 

Patrick’s jaw slowly unclenched after a minute or two, and he reached out to squeeze Violet’s small hand in its buttoned leather gauntlet. “-and that’s the reason I’m no longer welcome in Corfu. Well, not just Corfu actually; the entirety of Greece. Possibly parts of Albania and Macedonia too, following the unfortunate incident with the lobster-“

The three of them sat on the bench for a long time, the cold sinking into their bones. They heard the muffled sound of the countdown to midnight, and the following raucous cheers from inside the hall. The band struck up the predictable tune, starting sweet and melodic before unravelling into loud wild abandon. Parts of John’s posterior were getting uncomfortably numb, and he was relieved when Patrick glanced at his watch. “Goodness, it’s late. I’m sorry to keep you two out here like this, it’s inexcusable of me.” 

“Nobody worth snogging in there, anyhow.” Violet shrugged, as they got to their feet. “I have cunningly managed to snag quite the dishiest two chaps in the joint; you may both kiss me at your leisure.”

“You know my feelings on this matter, you grisly wench.” Sherlock muttered, sloping out of the darkness. He came and made a great point of standing between her and John, who elbowed him affectionately. “If you attempt to kiss my blogger again, you will _rue_ the consequences.” 

“SO bloody unfair…” Violet sighed, with a regretful glance at John. She presented her cheek to Patrick, who bent to kiss her just as Mycroft rounded the corner of the church hall. 

He was sheltered from the falling snow by one of his elegant black umbrellas, and was in the process of lighting a cigarette clamped between his lips. He inhaled the first lungful of smoke with a fervour that bordered on religious. From behind him, the sound of revellers leaving the hall and streaming down the path could be heard. His face was impassive as he took in the group, one hand meticulously adjusting the paisley silk scarf wound around his neck. Sherlock gave him a deeply disgruntled look, fingers twitching slightly as he watched Mycroft take another deep lungful of smoke. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt the party.” Mycroft said politely. “Good evening Violet; I didn’t get the chance to say hello earlier.”

“Hullo, Mycroft,” Violet replied unenthusiastically. “Happy Hogmanay to you. Planning on staying long?”

“I regret not.” Mycroft replied, with a cool smile. He did not look at Patrick, who suddenly seemed terribly interested in the heavy snow-clouds overhead. John noticed that his hand was still on Violet’s upper arm, and doubted that he was the only one who had spotted it there. “I have matters to attend to elsewhere. I had a few hours free and merely wished to give my regards to Sherlock and Doctor Watson. Interesting, of course, to visit the area after so long.”

“Excellent idea!” Violet beamed. “Why don’t you come and take a look at the gardens and stables tomorrow? They haven’t changed a bit!”

John fought a grin at the very faint stress that she placed on the word ‘stables’. 

“Sadly, I need to return to London almost immediately.” Mycroft said stiffly. 

“Yes, you’ve seen me now. I’ve had a couple of drinks but have somehow managed to stay off the cocaine and heroin that this den of vice is clearly awash in.” Sherlock said, in a blasé tone. “You can report as much back to Mummy now.”

Mycroft’s face hardened, and all at once it struck John what the scene must look like to him. He, Sherlock, Patrick and Violet stood in a tight little group under the spreading branches of the yew tree; Sherlock was standing close to John in his customary fashion. Not consciously touching, but so close that there was probably less than a couple of inches between their arms and the lapel of Sherlock’s coat was brushing John’s side. Mycroft had undoubtedly seen Patrick kissing Violet affectionately; and the way her hand had reached out to cover Patrick’s where it rested on her arm spoke volumes about the feeling between them. It wasn’t possessive, or even romantic. But there was support, and closeness there. Between all of them. Not being a part of that; not being welcomed in – surely that would make even an ice-man ache a little. He probably was here with the intention of checking up on Sherlock. But at the same time he had clearly travelled a long way to see his brother. 

(Stop it. He’s been a complete dick to Patrick. He’s threatened Violet in the past. He offered you money to spy on his brother. For fuck’s sake, this is the man who told Sherlock that _caring is not an advantage_ so often that he began to believe it. Just… stop it!)

Violet caught his eye, then exchanged a loaded glance with Patrick. He exhaled quietly, and nodded. 

“You can’t need to get back to London right this _minute_ , surely.” Violet said, a little reluctantly. She ignored the incredulous look Sherlock threw at her. “Why don’t you come back to the house for a drink?” 

Mycroft dropped his cigarette into the snow at his feet, where it extinguished with an audible hiss. “Thank you so much for the kind offer, Violet. I will have to decline, though. Sherlock; John – I will see you both back in London soon, I have no doubt. Goodnight.”

He cast the briefest of looks at Patrick, who did not meet his gaze. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked away, ducking slightly to avoid tangling his umbrella in the branches of a nearby ash tree. Within seconds he had disappeared, joining the straggling party-goers who were making their way down the path. Patrick covered his mouth briefly with his hand. He suddenly looked utterly exhausted.

“Well, that’s that. Let’s all head home, shall we? This bloody snow is only getting heavier.” Violet said briskly, after a pause. She kept hold of Patrick’s hand on her arm, and began to move down the path with him. 

John dipped his hand into Sherlock’s coat pocket, and tangled their fingers together as they moved more slowly in Violet and Patrick’s wake. Sherlock glanced down at him and smiled faintly, a slightly questioning look in his eyes.

“I’d hoped to be with you at midnight.” John said simply. 

“Oh, it was tedious.” Sherlock said vaguely, tightening his grip on John’s fingers. “Just people kissing and hugging and cheering. The scene was enlivened slightly by Mycroft’s expression when Mr. Brodie asked him to dance, at which point he left rather abruptly.”

John gave a small laugh, and skidded on a patch of ice between two looming headstones. He grabbed hold of one of them with his free hand and paused, and taking in their surroundings. The churchyard was now almost entirely silent, becoming even more thickly blanketed in snow. The stained glass windows of the hall had dimmed, leaving the enclosure lit mainly by the dying light of the candle lanterns dotted here and there in the snow. 

“D’you remember the last time we were in an old graveyard like this? We were following Patrick that time, too.” John smiled. “And you, you utter bastard! You decided to sneak up on me and give me the fright of my life!”

Sherlock grinned suddenly, looking positively schoolboyish with his hair full of snowflakes. “You deserved it, as I recall. You deliberately sent me a text full of ridiculous abbreviations and punctuation faces.”

“And kisses, too. Lots of x’s.” 

“Before you had even given me a real one. You were simply being too provoking.” Sherlock informed him, casually taking hold of the lapel of Johns coat and backing him up against a shadowy stone wall. 

John grinned up at him, and licked his lower lip; feeling the welcome warmth of Sherlock’s body coming to rest against his own. Sherlock eclipsed almost all light with his height and the breadth of his shoulders; the wings of his open coat framed John’s body as he leaned in to kiss him. His torso was still damp with sweat and a little chilly as John’s questing hands slipped under Sherlock’s jacket and came to rest on his waist. The smooth cotton shirt was pulled untidily from one side of the waistband of the sharply pleated kilt, no doubt from strenuous dancing. John had Sherlock’s plush lower lip caught between his own as he ran his hands covetously over the lean hips and over the swell of Sherlock’s arse; tracing the texture of the tightly woven wool with his fingers. Sherlock made a quiet, almost pleading noise as he licked greedily into John’s mouth, pushing the leather sporran aside and pressing himself hard against his hip. It was hard to resist slipping one hand further down to grab hold of a handful of heavy wool. John broke the kiss briefly as he bent to push the kilt up the length of Sherlock’s right thigh; his fingertips grazing chilly skin that erupted into gooseflesh under his touch. Sherlock gasped quietly and wrapped one long arm around John’s neck, pulling him closer so that he could press another bruising kiss to his mouth. 

“Oh my god!” John panted, his hand trailing further and further up. “You’ve been dancing all night… like _that?!_ ”

“Mm. It only seemed appropriate to dress like a real Scotsman.” Sherlock informed him, with a slightly feral glint in his eye. “Problem?”

“We need to get back to the house.” John said urgently, blinking away the snowflakes that had come to rest in his eyelashes. “We need to get back there right _now_. I want to take my time with you and if we stay here you’ll freeze to death by the time I’m done.”

Sherlock looked ready to protest, particularly given the current location of John’s hand; but after a brief internal struggle he sighed and stepped back, the heavy folds of fabric swinging back in place. John took a couple of deep breaths before he pushed himself away from the wall, the blood surging in his veins as he took in Sherlock’s snow-filled hair and swollen mouth. The detective’s eyes were shadowy as he looked down at John, positively radiating hunger. His expression nearly caused John to abandon his decision, but he forced himself to grab Sherlock’s arm. He hustled him down the path and around the front of the hall with indecent haste. 

Mr. Brodie drove them back to Hilderbogie House, in an uncharacteristically thoughtful silence. Violet took the passenger seat, nodding off with Scunner dozing asthmatically in her lap. Patrick shared the back seat with John and Sherlock, but he was so distracted that he barely seemed to notice them sitting with a careful six inches of space between them. Sherlock was practically vibrating with impatience by the time the old car pulled up in front of the stately house, and he almost dragged John from the back seat. 

To John’s great relief, both Violet and Patrick decided to go to bed almost immediately after they had waved goodbye to Mr. Brodie on the steps. While Violet looked genuinely tired from all the dancing, Patrick seemed eager to be alone and he politely refused her yawning offer of a nightcap in the drawing room. He disappeared swiftly in the direction of his bedroom, his footsteps quietly echoing on the stone floor.

Sherlock’s old bedroom was lit only by the flames of the dying fire, and neither of them bothered to turn on any of the lamps. Sherlock’s crumpled jacket hit the floor carelessly before his arms wrapped around John again. When their lips met it was with a heated urgency, parting almost at once to allow the slide and tangle of tongues. John’s hands seemed to move of their own free will down to Sherlock’s thighs and arse, still exploring the provocative outline of Sherlock’s body under the unfamiliar heavy wool of the kilt. As Sherlock released his mouth and began slowly, insistently biting on the tender flesh below his ear, John glanced down through half-shut eyes, taking in the startling sight of strong, pale legs emerging from the dark folds of cloth.

“Oh, god. I _really_ like the kilt,” he breathed, his fingertips tracing one of the knife-pleats over Sherlock’s hip and toying with one of the small buckles that fastened it. “I fucking _adore_ the kilt.”

“Really?” Sherlock murmured, and bit sharply on John’s collarbone before swiping his tongue gently over the reddened flesh, grinning wolfishly as John’s breath stuttered at the sensation. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Perhaps I haven’t made it clear enough. Come here and sit down for a minute.” he guided Sherlock in front of the fireplace, and pushed him down onto the old leather sofa. 

Sherlock complied, tipping his head back and regarding John with a mixture of unmistakable hunger and curiosity. He slowly spread his legs, his eyes never leaving John’s as his hands slowly swept the fabric several inches up his pale, muscular thighs. A few more buttons of his shirt were now undone, exposing a wide swathe of his chest and uncovering one peaked nipple. The remaining buttons were straining, the thin fabric moulding around his stomach. His hair was wildly disordered from John’s questing fingers, and the look on his face made it very clear that he knew the effect he was having on him. 

“Take off your clothes,” Sherlock ordered softly, his long clever fingers slowly moving down the bared skin of his torso and toying with one of the remaining buttons. He watched John shrug off his deep green sweater through half-closed eyes, licking his lower lip as John’s fingers finished unbuttoning his crumpled white shirt.

John no longer felt self-conscious about being naked in front of Sherlock, but some small part of him never quite understood the way that Sherlock reacted to him revealing his bare skin. He wasn’t in bad shape, but the way that Sherlock devoured the sight of his slightly softened muscles, the ghosts of his uneven tan-lines and the dark mess of his scarred shoulder… surely that didn’t make sense. He half-smiled and kicked off his shoes, shaking the errant thought away as best he could. 

He was halfway through unzipping his jeans when Sherlock murmured: “You clearly have no idea of the effect you have on me, my dear John.”

“Um… no.” John said truthfully, with a half-grin. “Not really. Especially when I get to look at you spread out like that, and you look at me like I’m some kind of miracle. Like _you’re_ the one who got the prize.”

Sherlock sighed gently, and didn’t respond; his fingers slowly teasing the last few buttons of his shirt through the holes, exposing his stomach and the faint line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of the kilt. John shivered slightly in the cooling air of the room, relishing the warmth of the fire along his back. For a moment, he merely indulged himself in taking in the debauched, sensual creature in front of him, who was regarding him with a look of invitation and clear challenge. Wordlessly, he sank to his knees on the hearthrug, pushing Sherlock’s knees apart and moving between them. Being totally naked while Sherlock was still largely clothed somehow made the situation feel even more erotic, and his hand strayed without conscious thought towards his cock. 

He was already fully hard, arousal surging forcefully through him as his lips touched the skin inside Sherlock’s knee; trailing soft kisses along the tender skin. Sherlock groaned a little, his head falling back to rest on the back of the sofa. His eyes closed tightly, and he bit his lip sharply as John dragged his teeth gently up the inside of his thigh, pushing the thick folds of deep blue wool out of the way as he went. Sherlock’s erection was prominent, tenting the wool at his groin; but John resisted the urge to simply pull the kilt off and swallow him down. He wanted to relish the taste of Sherlock’s skin, now heated from arousal and flames. He could smell and taste the sweat from the evenings dancing, mingled with woodsmoke and wool and Sherlock’s own dark, delicious scent. He ran his tongue slowly, teasingly back down to Sherlock’s knee, causing him to moan in protest and then in encouragement as John moved his attention to the opposite thigh. He blew slowly on the dampened flesh and delighted in the resulting shudder that ran through Sherlock’s body; his hips bucking helplessly. John had to allow himself to stroke his own cock a few times at this point, unable to endure the sight of Sherlock so undone. The detective’s chest was now heaving slightly, a few drops of perspiration scattered across his sternum. John hadn’t noticed that Sherlock’s fingers had moved to start plucking and kneading at one of the scandalously exposed nipples, rolling the deep pink flesh into even sharper peaks. He inhaled sharply at the sight. 

John reached for the top fold of fabric with slightly unsteady fingers, slowly dragging it away and pushing the sporran aside. The kilt was still fastened around Sherlock’s waist, and as he pushed the next layer of cloth in the opposite direction, John grinned a little at how much this felt like unwrapping some kind of gift; exposing more and more of Sherlock’s endless thighs. He slowly pushed them a little wider, breathing in as Sherlock’s beautifully long, thick cock was revealed between the layers of folded wool; deep pink with arousal and clearly damp at the head. 

“Mm... You are fucking _delectable_ , Sherlock Holmes.” he murmured, laying his cheek on Sherlock’s thigh; feeling him shiver at the sensation of John’s stubble against the sensitive flesh. He gently dragged his cheek along the tender skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs, leaving the skin there slightly pink. He decided to take pity on the gently trembling man, and moved a fraction closer; dipping his head until he could stroke the length of Sherlock’s cock with his questing tongue. 

“Ah! John…” Sherlock half-laughed, his hips bucking helplessly as John gave him one more deliberate lick. “Oh god, stop being such a tease….”

“Who, me?” John asked, as innocently as he could manage before inching below to suck greedily on one of Sherlock’s heavy balls for a few seconds. He released it from his mouth with a filthy, wet sound and smiled up at Sherlock, who was writhing weakly above him. The detective attempted to glare at him, with limited success. 

“Get the lube,” Sherlock murmured, reaching down to stroke his own cock with a long, lovely movement that had John’s mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. He had probably intended the words to sound like an order, but they came out as more of a plea. 

“And what did you have in mind for this?” John asked him, after quickly retrieving the bottle from the bedside cabinet. He grabbed a cushion from the sofa and dropped it to the floor, sinking back down between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock paused his shameless masturbation, and took hold of John’s empty hand. He guided John’s middle and index fingers to his mouth, and John moaned quietly as they disappeared between Sherlock’s wet, full lips. Sherlock released them all too quickly, after working his tongue around their lengths in a way that left John gasping quietly. 

“I want these inside me.” Sherlock explained, his mouth flushed and slick. “I want… I want you to show me how you’d get me ready for you, John.”

John stared at him, his pulse racing. His mouth suddenly went dry. “I… I don’t…”

“Just that, John. I’m not asking you to fuck me tonight.” Sherlock reached out and caressed his jaw, giving him a small, crooked smile when John leaned into his touch. “I want you to use those clever hands and work me open, and then I want to come in your beautiful mouth.”

John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reaching down to squeeze his cock tightly. “I… okay. God, _yes._ Just, um… let me know how I’m doing, ok? We’ve never gone past two before.”

“I am aware.” Sherlock said archly, curving his back and slipping a little further down the couch. He gasped a little at the cool touch of Johns fingers as they ran along his perineum, rubbing teasing little circles below his balls. He allowed John to guide one of his long thighs over his good shoulder, grabbing handfuls of the kilt and pushing it untidily out of the way; letting it bunch and tangle around his hips and waist. He made a low, needy sound at the back of his throat as John slid his fingertips back and forth slowly over his entrance, in no hurry to start pushing in. John eased Sherlock’s thighs a little wider, drinking in the sight of him spread out and craving John’s touch. 

“Let me watch you touch yourself, you gorgeous thing.” he whispered. 

Sherlock complied at once, his hand beginning to move on his cock again. He seemed to be making an effort to keep his movements slow and controlled, not giving in to the urge to find a quick release. John let out a small sigh at the sight, teasing Sherlock’s tight entrance and swirling his fingertips insistently against the tender knot of flesh there. He bent his head and swiped his tongue slowly from Sherlock’s clenching arse, along his perineum and began to mouth at his balls, licking teasingly at the tightening skin. 

“Mmm… _please_ , John…” Sherlock whispered, with a faint groan as John sucked just a little harder. “I won’t last, at this rate.”

“Pushy as ever,” John commented wryly, but reached for some more lubricant before coating his fingers again. He watched breathlessly as he pressed his index finger slowly, insistently inside Sherlock; feeling the resistance of slick, tight muscle around him. He pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s inner thigh as he breached him, his skin tingling as he heard the deep, guttural moan he provoked. He waited several seconds before slowly beginning to push deeper and slip back, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock’s puckered arse clenching rhythmically around his finger. 

When he grazed his prostate, Sherlock gave a sharp, bitten-off cry and inhaled deeply, his chest heaving. John glanced up at him, his movement stilling. Sherlock’s eyes were tightly closed, his chest heaving. His fingers were clamped tightly around the base of his swollen cock, and John fought the urge to run his tongue across the slick, dark head of it. 

“Too much?”

“Not… yet.” Sherlock panted, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. He seemed to be struggling to find words. “I mean… not yet. I don’t want to come yet. Another one now… just stay away from it for now. I can’t last if you do that.”

“Okay, love. Try and relax a bit more for me, then.” John murmured, stroking the length of Sherlock’s left thigh, which was still draped over his shoulder. 

Sherlock bit his lip and took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, leaning his head on the back of the sofa. John felt his muscles clench and relax around his index finger, which was still buried to the hilt inside Sherlock. He slid it out a little, and pressed the tip of his middle finger against Sherlock’s entrance, before pushing slowly back into his hot slick passage, feeling the resistance of strong muscle and watching his rim stretch around him. Sherlock moaned, and bore down on John’s fingers as he slowly opened further.

“Christ, Sherlock. You are absolutely the sexiest creature I’ve ever seen,” John half-laughed, beginning to piston his fingers slowly in and out of him.

“Mmmm. Tell me… what it feels like?” 

“Oh, god. Um. Tight, so fucking tight. You’re incredibly hot, and slick inside. I can tell you’re trying to control your muscles but you’re not able to, not completely. You keep clenching around me, and… and your hole is sort of quivering as it stretches, dark pink and wet. I want my tongue in there too, pushing inside you along with my fingers.”

Sherlock gave a small, helpless half-laugh. “Oh, John. Oh god… I want you to but I think… I’d come on the spot.”

“Next time, then…” John promised, contenting himself with blowing gently on the slick hole and watching Sherlock shudder. “Think you’re ready for another?”

Sherlock nodded at once, his hand beginning to move again on his cock. “Next time I want to do this in front of a mirror, so I can watch you fuck me with your fingers.” 

“Oh, god. You’re going to be the death of me.” John said, weakly. He reached once more for the lube, squeezing out more than was strictly necessary and liberally coating Sherlock’s hole which was deep pink and glistening around his middle and index fingers. Experimentally, he fluttered his fingertips against Sherlock’s slick passage, and moaned in response to the sound he made. His own, rather neglected erection was almost painful now and he reached down to stroke himself hard; his balls aching. 

Sherlock resisted a little more at the pressure of three fingertips pushing at his arse, and he took several deep breaths before nodding at John to continue. Achingly slowly, John inched back into him; paying attention to every twitch of muscle and gasp that Sherlock made, watching for signs of discomfort or anxiety. To his great relief, none came as he worked his way deeper, rapt as his fingers slipped deep inside Sherlock. The detective’s hips bucked convulsively, quiet moans escaping his parted lips. 

“Good?” John asked quietly, watching as his three fingers finally inched all the way inside. Sherlock nodded, seeming incapable of speech. “Mmm… can I stroke your prostate now?”

Sherlock shuddered, and nodded again. He gave a small, hoarse cry as John inched a little deeper, seeking the sweet spot inside him. Unable to stop himself, John bent his head and ran his tongue once along the rim of stretched skin where his fingers disappeared inside Sherlock, before backing away. 

“Oh, fuck… Oh, _John._ Your mouth. I need it on me now…” Sherlock whispered brokenly, gasping at the rhythmic, gentle pressure of his fingers. 

John didn’t wait to be asked twice; he darted forward and took the head of Sherlock’s dark, weeping cock between his lips; flicking at his damp slit with the tip of his tongue. 

Sherlock half-sobbed with relief and arousal, his hips trembling at the combined pressure of John’s deeply buried fingers and his hot, wet mouth. John could feel the climax approaching swiftly from the way Sherlock could no longer control the wild trembling of his body and the strong clenches of his arse around his fingers. _“John!”_

John hummed in response, working his tongue rapidly along the length of his hard cock; feeling Sherlock pushing down onto his fingers, trying to work them even deeper inside himself. He smelt heady, of musk and sweat and John moaned around him, feeling almost in danger of coming himself at the sensation of Sherlock like this beneath him. With a final, sharp cry Sherlock gave in, letting the wave of his climax break over him. 

John continued to suck him through it, stroking his prostate as he tasted the bitter, mineral tang of Sherlock’s come filling his mouth. He’d never thought that he’d enjoy this, before he and Sherlock had become involved, but he found himself relishing the flavour of his lover on his tongue, the peculiar metallic, lemon and salt taste of him. He slowly let Sherlock’s softening cock slip from his mouth after a long minute, his fingers still buried inside him. Sherlock was lying back bonelessly on the sofa, his breath hitching and his face flushed, seemingly incapable of movement. After a moment or two, he managed to open his eyes, looking down at John with a kind of hazy adoration. 

“I need a doctor.” he murmured, wincing slightly as John eased his fingers out of his slick, loosened hole. John grinned and gently lowered Sherlock’s thigh from his shoulder, wiping his fingers hastily on his discarded shirt before getting shakily to his feet. Sherlock reached out for him, guiding him into his lap; letting his hands slide down Johns flanks as he straddled his hips. John closed his eyes as Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around his cock, the surge of relief and excitement making him feel almost light-headed. He gripped the back of the sofa with both hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, giving in to the sensation of his oncoming release.

He felt Sherlock’s other hand on the back of his neck, guiding him down into a deep kiss; Sherlock’s tongue pushing slow and deep into his mouth, wet and messy as they shared the remains of his come. John buried his hands in Sherlock’s sweat-dampened hair as they kissed, his surging hips driving his cock harder and faster into the tight grip of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock broke away breathlessly, the colour high in his cheeks as he leaned forward to take one of John’s nipples into his mouth. He sucked hard on the hard nub, making John swear loudly and gasp as he buried his face in the dark curls on top of Sherlock’s head. “Ohh… please. Harder! Sherlock- _please!_ ”

Sherlock hummed, tightening his full lips as he reached down to take hold of John’s tightening balls. His teeth grazed John’s nipple as he sucked sharply, his fingers squeezing and rolling below. John heard a harsh, deep moan that he distantly recognised as his own. He could feel himself on the edge of the precipice, briefly fighting before giving in to the sweep of his orgasm as Sherlock’s hand tightened on his aching cock. He collapsed onto Sherlock, burying his face in the crook of his neck as he let the sensation roll through him; feeling Sherlock continuing to stroke him, wringing every last shudder from his body before wrapping his long arms around him. He slid his arms around Sherlock’s neck, resting his face against Sherlock’s carotid artery and feeling his pulse gradually slow along with his own. 

“I love you so much.” he murmured, feeling Sherlock’s hands drifting thoughtfully up and down his spine. “You know, I never thought it could be like this.”

“Mmm. Nor I.” Sherlock agreed, after a few seconds pause. He pressed a gentle kiss to John’s ear.

John sighed, and glanced down at the sorry crushed heap of dark blue wool that was pooled around Sherlock’s waist. “Your kilt’s probably ruined.” 

Sherlock tightened his arms around him, and John heard the grin in his voice. _“Completely_ worth it.”

***

John felt as though he had barely slept ten minutes when he awoke the next morning. When he rolled over in bed the bright light was pouring through the heavy curtains they had neglected to pull the night before, and a bleary glance at the bedside clock showed that it was nearly ten o’clock. Sherlock was a snoring lump under the bedclothes next to him, huddled so far beneath the sheets and blankets only the ends of his messy curls were visible against the edge of his pillow. 

John yawned and sighed, gingerly pushing himself out of bed and wincing at the cold room. He wrestled a thick sweater over his pajamas and stretched lazily as he peered out of the window, taking in the latest heavy fall of snow and the motionless expanse of garden and fields. The river had frozen over almost completely, and closer inspection of the window itself revealed a faint film of ice on the inside of the pane. He was tempted to slide straight back between the warm sheets and wrap himself up in Sherlock’s ridiculously long arms again, but the bathroom and a pressing need for tea drove him from the room after donning a thick pair of socks. 

The kitchen wasn’t much warmer, as the stove hadn’t been fed yet that day and nor had the fire been lit. As John gingerly threw a few logs through the door of the massive Aga, Violet shuffled into the room, yawning hugely. She was wrapped in a thick turquoise cashmere dressing gown and her long messy braid was unravelling slowly as she walked. 

“Moooorning!” she murmured, and absently kissed his shoulder as she passed him on her way to fill the kettle. “Think we all had a bit of a lie-in today, eh?”

“Morning, Vi. Sleep well?” he answered, steadfastly ignoring her faint eyebrow wiggle.

“Better than a narcoleptic under general anaesthetic,” she informed him, rummaging around in a cupboard and extracting a gilt tin tea caddy. “Hadn’t danced so much in years.”

“Any sign of Patrick?” John asked, lingering next to the slowly warming stove as Violet placed the kettle on the hotplate with a clang. 

“Well, I haven’t seen him but someone’s been up before us.” Violet informed him, nodding towards the kitchen door. “I reckon he’s gone out for a walk – that door’s been opened in the last couple of hours. The snow’s been disturbed on the window.”

John went and peered out through the thick greenish glass, spying blurry footprints in the deep snow. “Must’ve gone out for a walk earlier. Poor bloke, doubt he slept all that well.”

“Hah!” Violet muttered darkly. “Who would, with Mycroft sodding Holmes popping up out of nowhere to goggle at them like a dyspeptic axolotl? Just when he seemed to be having a good time, too.”

“Apparently, Mr. Brodie asked him to dance.” John told her, with a grin. 

She groaned loudly, sinking into a chair. “Oh god, and I missed it? That’s _so_ bloody unfair.”

John patted her on the shoulder in a commiserating fashion, and took a seat next to her. “Apparently Sherlock witnessed the whole thing. That’s what drove him out of the hall and into the church yard.”

“Yes, that was more than a bit awkward.” Violet said, wrinkling her nose and tucking her feet up under her. “You know, as much as I cannot stand Mycroft, he actually seemed to make Patrick happy when he wasn’t being an absentee boyfriend.”

“Vi, you can’t call _Mycroft_ someone’s boyfriend.” John said beseechingly. “You just can’t.”

“Fair point.” she conceded. “But nevertheless. I mean, I think we can agree that Patrick is seriously easy on the eye. And charming, once you get to know him. But he’s a bit odd, what with the LARPing, and the blood thing, and the fact that he secretly writes vampire robot romance novels under a pseudonym.”

“He _what?!”_

“Forget I told you the last bit.” Violet said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What I mean is, when you’re a bit of an odd fish it can be a bit tricky to find a similarly odd fish who doesn’t want to change you. An odd fish that thinks you’re the bees knees, in fact; if you feel like mixing your wildlife metaphors. And while I could care less whether Mycroft is happy or not, I got the distinct impression that Mycroft made Patrick happy.”

“He still isn’t willing to take the time to do it, though.” John pointed out. 

“Mm. I’m not entirely convinced by that.” Violet said slowly. “Not after I saw the way he looked at Patrick last night, just before he buzzed off.”

John thought back over the events of the night before, of Patrick avoiding Mycroft’s searching gaze in the church yard. He thought of Patrick’s unsteady hands, of his story about reading Mycroft poetry. “He’s still been a git towards him, though.”

“Think that’s a Holmes genetic trait, to be honest.” Violet pointed out, fairly.

“Mmm.” John hummed, feeling that it would be a little disloyal to agree with this (nevertheless entirely accurate) statement. He got up and retrieved the now-whistling kettle, pouring the water into the teapot that Violet had left on the table. He glanced up when he caught sight of a shape passing the kitchen window. “Hang on, here he comes.”

“That’s not Patrick.” Violet said, with a frown. She craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of whomever had passed the icy window. “Too short. Looked like a woman to me.”

“Might be Murdy.” John said, hearing a hesitant knock. “We’re supposed to go give statements at the station later, and finish wrapping up the case…” he trailed off, stopping dead when he spied the slight figure standing on the other side of the door. He could see her though the pane of glass in the kitchen door, slightly distorted but instantly recognisable. 

His heart lurched, pulse beginning to race. 

“John, what’s wrong?” Violet asked, curiously getting to her feet. “Who is it?” 

His hands were sweating as he reached for the latch on the door. She had seen him now, he had no choice. 

“It’s… it’s her. My- I mean…” John took a deep breath, and cleared his throat. He began to pull the heavy door open. “It’s… it’s Mary.”


	25. Chapter 25

It seemed to take eons to open the door, and John’s mind was reeling as he pulled at the heavy iron handle. 

(Just… I mean how? Why? What the hell is she doing here? It’s fucking New Years morning in the middle of fucking Scotland and my fucking assassin ex-wife just decides to knock on the kitchen door? Oh Christ, what’s _happened?_ )

She stood huddled on the doorstep, uncertainty radiating from her posture. Mary was wrapped in a thick grey wool coat, an old blue hat pulled down over her short blonde hair.  
John found himself staring at that hat, on some level marvelling that it was the same one she used to wear when they took walks in the park in chilly weather. Back when he thought he knew her, when he trusted in the person she appeared to be. Her face was anxious, her eyes wide. The sight of her provoked a sick, dull ache in his heart. 

She swallowed hard when they came face to face, shifting nervously from one foot to another. 

“Um. John. Look, I know this is unexpected-“

He simply stared at her, his eyebrows raised. She trailed off, and took a deep breath. 

“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. I know you don’t want to see me any more, and that’s _fine_. It’s fine. Oh god.” she wrinkled her nose at him, and that once-dear expression cut him to the bone. “Sorry, love.”

“Don’t call me that.” he said at once, sharply. The words flew out of his mouth before he could even think them.

“Shit, sorry. Force of habit.” She raised her hands placatingly and he noticed they were trembling slightly. “Didn’t mean it that way. Look, um. Can I come in?”

John didn’t move. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s… it’s about Caroline.”

John’s hand clenched at the doorframe tightly, feeling a sudden swell of long-suppressed rage. He drew in his breath sharply. “You… you called her that? You decided to call your daughter that, even though she’s not mine. What the fuck are you _doing_ here, Mary? You can’t just decide to show up out of the blue like this and tell me you’ve given that poor kid the name we decided on together, the name of _my fucking grandmother!_ ”

Mary’s eyes were wide, her hands still outstretched. “John. It’s just a name. A beautiful name. I couldn’t think of her with any other name; we’d been calling her that for months. But that’s not what I came to talk to you about. Look, please, I just need maybe twenty minutes of your time; no more than that. I swear, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

John wanted to slam the door in her face. Another part of him wanted to keep standing there, to scream every last insult and accusation he’d bottled up for months after their final fight. He remembered the horrible, endless nights thinking about how he should have been holding a tiny newborn daughter, comforting her cries instead of staring at the grey walls of his empty bedroom. She would be more than a year old now; probably walking and beginning to talk. Caroline.

(But not _your_ Caroline.)

(Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it.)

“You can’t come in.” he said hoarsely. “You… no. No. I will give you ten bloody minutes of my time and then you need to leave. Wait here, I need to get dressed.”

Mary nodded silently, white faced. She seemed to calm slightly, and gave him a faint, grateful smile. “Fine. Thank you, John.”

He closed the kitchen door firmly, sliding the stiff bolt home. The door was rarely locked, but he felt the need to ensure she couldn’t enter. (Not here.) 

There was no trace of Violet in the kitchen, for which he was grateful. She must have stolen away, not wanting to intrude on the conversation. Her cup was gone from the table, and the two that John had set out for himself and Sherlock sat full on the kitchen table, steaming gently in the cool air. He grasped the back of one of the chairs, feeling suddenly nauseous and weak. Christ, _Sherlock_. The woman who shot him, the woman who John had returned to, was roaming around the grounds. He didn’t want to think about how Sherlock might react to the news, but he certainly didn’t want them coming face to face. It was one of the reasons he had agreed to talk to Mary – it was the only way he could control the situation and send her on her way as soon as possible. If he refused, she might decide to hang around. He wasn’t even going to let them in the same room if he could help it – she had stopped Sherlock’s heart. He may have taken her back, but that was something he had never forgiven.

He swiped the cups from the table, leaving messy spilt trails on the scrubbed wood. He winced repeatedly as he quickly made his way down the corridors, trying to come up with ways to tell Sherlock the news. This was not a conversation he was looking forward to having.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his elbow, expecting to see Sherlock still huddled in a heap under the covers; but the high old bed was empty, the sheets messily thrown back. He was wrapped in a blanket, curled up on one of the window-seats, and was staring down into the grounds with grim interest. He looked up as John entered the room, and gave him a thin smile. 

“We have company, I see.” he commented, without quite meeting his eye. He took one of the cups from John’s hands, not even touching his fingers in the precise movement. 

John shut his eyes and sighed. “I honestly don’t know what the hell she’s doing here. Or how on earth she knew we were here – I didn’t even know this place existed when we were together.”

Sherlock took a long sip of his tea, resuming his study of the grounds. John knew that he had an uninterrupted view of the kitchen door, and his heart sank at Sherlock’s cool manner. 

“Oscillation on the doorstep. I think we both know what that means.”

“Sherlock!” John gaped. “’Christs sake!”

Sherlock finally glanced up, meeting his eye. His face was carefully blank. “You’re going to talk to her.”

“I said I’d give her ten minutes.” John admitted, a little defensively. “She said… she said it was about the baby. About Caroline.” he gave a small, harsh laugh. “The fucking nerve of her, still going ahead and calling her that.”

“I see.” Sherlock said, slowly. He studied the depths of his cup and took another mouthful, clearly unwilling to elaborate on his train of thought. 

“I only said yes so that she’d get out of our hair as soon as possible!” John said, after a heavy pause. He put down his own cup on the battered desk and laid a hand on Sherlock’s rigid shoulder. “Sherlock, it’s alright. I just want her gone. I’m going to get dressed and we’ll go for a walk in the garden and I’ll get rid of her. You don’t need to see her.”

“Oh, _that’s_ why you agreed. I understand now.” Sherlock murmured coldly. He was still mussed from sleep, his hair in frizzy disarray. There were tired circles under his eyes, and his face was pale in the chilly morning light. He fixed John with a penetrating stare, and his tone was so clearly accusatory it made John’s already simmering temper surge to the surface.

“What do you mean?” he asked tightly, letting his hand drop from Sherlock’s shoulder. “What is there to understand?”

“I mean that your ex-wife appears, and all she needs to do is mention the name of your imaginary child and you immediately come running!” Sherlock snapped. “You know, John, I usually do credit you with a considerable amount of intelligence but at times your _complete_ lack of self-awareness positively _astounds_ me!”

“Oh, go on then.” John glared at him, riled. He folded his arms and met Sherlock’s gaze unwaveringly. “If I’m such an idiot, please do enlighten me.”

“Very well, then.” Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, his quicksilver eyes narrowed. With a pang, John realised that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have Sherlock’s scorn and anger directed towards him. It had been such a long time. “What I mean is that you’re so completely _desperate_ to be a father, at the back of your mind you’re thinking that you’d go back to her if she gave you the chance!” 

“No.” John said blankly. “No. Never. Sherlock, how on earth can you-“

“Even the way you behave towards those Antonelli children, your ridiculous, perpetual worry over Murdy! You even coddle Patrick bloody Singh! You can’t help yourself, John. Don’t bother denying it; we both know it’s true.” Sherlock spoke with exaggerated patience, his expression defying John to contradict him.

John couldn’t bring himself to answer, he was so shocked at this outburst. Sherlock was deathly pale, the hands wrapped around his cup a little unsteady. He was shaking visibly. 

“And even though it’s so obvious it’s hardly worth stating, I can’t give you that.” Sherlock continued. He took another, deliberate swallow of his tea; determinedly casual. He looked back up at John, fixing him with an icy stare. “And even if I could, _I wouldn’t.”_

“Where the hell is this coming from?” John bit out, feeling sick with horror and anger. He forced his voice to stay level, hands clenched. “How long have you been thinking this? Because you’re bloody wrong, Sherlock. You are so fucking wrong it’s ridiculous. I’d _never_ , not in a million years-“

“Oh, really.” Sherlock drawled, seeming viciously bored right up until the moment he flung his nearly-empty cup across the room. It shattered loudly against the fireplace, fragments of china ricocheting every which way over the hearth and exploding across the floor. The remains of the tea splattered across the stones, staining them a dark ugly grey. 

John stared at him, open-mouthed. Even Sherlock seemed very slightly shocked at his own actions, staring at the mess before scrubbing his hands across his face angrily. He was trembling with emotion and rage. John felt nauseous and hollow in the face of Sherlock’s reaction. 

“Sherlock, you need to calm down,” he said quietly, forcing his own anger back down. “You need to calm down and we’ll talk this through. I think there’s a few things we need to hash out here-“

“Oh, you think so?” Sherlock glared out of the window, his fingers worrying fitfully on the edge of his blanket. “Because I don’t. Go and talk to her, John. It’ll all seem _so much clearer_ once you’ve had a nice, conciliatory conversation and you realise what you could have. What you’ve been missing this past year and a half. Go, and sort it out before you miss your chance.” 

“There’s no bloody point talking to you when you’re like this.” John glared at him, squaring his shoulders. “And damn it, I need some air. I’m going to go and get rid of her, and then you and I are going to have a proper talk about this stupid bollocks you’ve dreamt up. I’m coming back in half an hour and you’re going to talk to me about it without bloody shouting or chucking stuff around like a sodding five year old.”

He turned away stiffly, and grabbed some discarded clothes at random from his open suitcase. He made towards the door, willing Sherlock to say something, anything; but he heard nothing from the hunched, brooding figure on the windowsill. He sighed, opening the door and carefully didn’t look around as he left. 

(I fucking love you, you complete prat. But sometimes I forget that that means I’ve handed you the ability to shoot me in the heart.)

John stared at himself in the bathroom mirror as he dressed quickly, taking in his set jaw and the pronounced creases of his face. He felt stung, and unsteady; blindsided first by Mary’s appearance and then by Sherlock’s accusations. 

It was true, he’d wanted a daughter; but that was really only after he’d gotten used to the idea of her. Not just any daughter, he’d wanted _Caroline_. Once he’d gotten over the shock of learning that he was going to be a father, once the initial panic had abated, he’d grown to love the idea of her. The idea of him, and the wife he thought he’d known, creating a whole new person; someone who’d rely on him and love him and whom he’d try to never let down in the hundred little ways his own dad had done. He’d built up this entire vision of Caroline in his head – fair haired and blue-eyed, more than likely. Probably cleverer than most. Quick-tempered, but it would fade away quickly. He’d unconsciously vowed to himself that he’d ensure she was able to trust in others more easily than he or Mary ever did. 

But _that_ daughter, she’d never even existed. He’d never been able to figure out how long Mary had been planning on letting him believe in the lie – after the birth? 

When she went to school? Mary had been in a rage when it had finally come spilling out, and he was quite sure that she hadn’t intended for him to find out so soon. Their relationship over the final few months had been an odd, bruised thing; John quietly simmered or brooded while Mary grew exasperated with his silences and forced smiles. He’d never managed to forgive her, not really. Damn it to hell, though, he’d _tried_. For Caroline’s sake, he’d _tried_. And Mary grew resentful. And _bored_ with him. She hadn’t planned the pregnancy any more than he had. She had hated the changes to her body, the slowness that accompanied her growth in size. 

She slept almost as poorly as he did, back then. She rarely spoke of the baby, didn’t seem able to envision her as a person; merely a slightly unwelcome occupant of her swollen belly. Mary had paced their house in Crouch End like a caged animal. And John had watched her out of the corner of his eye; worried, ashamed of his mixed feelings towards her. 

And he was reminded of Sherlock in his darkest moods: Bored. Bored. _BORED!_

Oh, god. _Sherlock_. He’d felt so guilty back then, guilty about how much part of him wanted to be sitting in his scruffy armchair in Baker Street or chasing down some dark alley on Sherlock’s coat tails, the blood rushing in his veins. Laughing at crime scenes and watching the crackle of brilliance in Sherlock’s eyes. As much as he’d anticipated Caroline, a small secret part of him had wanted those old days back so much it hurt.

(You and me. Just the two of us, against the rest of the world.) 

He splashed icy cold water into his face, forcing himself to return to the present. 

(Focus. Go and see what the hell she wants. No, sod that. Just send her packing. Get her out of here. She’s got no place here, or in your life. Then you can go and wrap your arms around Sherlock and keep telling him the truth until he has to believe you: He’s wrong. He’s enough.)

(He’s _everything_.) 

***

Mary was sitting on one of the low stone walls that bordered the kitchen garden, her gloved hands clasped between her knees. She was hanging her head, studying her deep footprints in the snow; and her posture almost made it look like she was praying as she waited. John trudged slowly towards her, zipping up his jacket as he went. He’d forgotten to pick up shoes in the bedroom and had had to make do with a pair of discarded wellington boots from inside the kitchen door. They probably belonged to Mr. Brodie as they were a couple of sizes too big, and his feet slipped awkwardly inside them. The cold was profound and the air was utterly still; heavy grey clouds overhead promising yet more snowfall to come. 

“Right.” he said bluntly, coming to a halt a few feet away from her. She looked up, her well-shaped dark eyebrows raised expectantly. She still looked nervous, but seemed to be pulling herself together. “Mary, you can’t be here. Whatever it is, it’s got nothing to do with me. You’ve got to go.”

“Look, John…I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.” Mary said pleadingly. “I’m so sorry. But this does concern you. Please, just… could we just walk a bit? I’m freezing my arse off here and I need to get my blood moving again. Can we just walk for a few minutes and have a talk like we used to? It always seemed easier that way.”

It was true. Back when they were together, before Sherlock had made his stupid, miraculous dramatic reappearance. Whenever they’d had something serious to talk about, they’d gone out for a walk. It had been easier, somehow, than doing it face to face across a table. They’d walked around parks and along the river, discussing where to live. Jobs to take. Mary’s investments. John’s nightmares.

He glanced up at the window before he could help himself. Sherlock was no longer sitting there, but he was almost sure that he saw a brief movement behind the curtain. Mary followed his gaze, and her mouth twitched very slightly. 

(God damn it, I don’t need an audience for this.)

John glared at the ground, and started walking towards the stone path that wound through the low rosemary hedges and beyond the empty peach-houses of the kitchen garden. Mary got to her feet at once and followed him, keeping a polite distance. 

She looked around the grounds with interest, taking in the austere grandeur of the house and estate but she didn’t comment on them. After a minute or two they had descended the stone steps that led to the east lawns, thickly covered in snow. The ornate central fountain was empty, and wreathed in icicles. John gave her a sidelong glance, willing her to get on with it.

“I’m guessing the inevitable happened then, with you two.” she said lightly, studying the carved stone of the basin. 

“None of your business.” he replied evenly. 

“Right.” Mary acknowledged. “Just, um. Making conversation, I suppose. Hope he treats you well though.”

John shook his head in irritation, and began to walk again. “You’re wasting your ten minutes. I reckon you should probably get on with it.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m _sorry,_ John. This isn’t easy for me.” she said, an unfamiliar pleading note in her voice.

“Funny. You’ve apologised more to me today more than you did the whole time we were together.” he said tightly. 

“I’ve realised that you deserve them.” Mary said, after a moment’s visible struggle. Her face was earnest, and she looked into his eyes with utter sincerity. “I suppose I want to make amends. It’s New Years Day; and it’s a good time to start fresh, isn’t it?”

“So… you came all the way from God knows where to rural Aberdeenshire to say sorry to me?” John queried, not even bothering to hide the scepticism in his expression. 

“No… well, I mean _yes_ , I did. But not only that. Um. Like I said, it’s about Ca- it’s about her.”

“She’s okay?” he asked it, without even intending to say the words. He clenched his fists in his coat pockets, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. 

“Yes! Yes, she’s fine.” Mary said, giving him a small smile. “She’s, um. She’s lovely. Dark blue eyes. Always trying to climb into cupboards. Chews the hem of her dresses when she thinks no ones looking.”

“Oh.” John tried to picture her, and carefully ignored the small twinge in his chest. “So, what’s the problem.”

“The problem is…” Mary swallowed hard, lengthening her strides a little. They were now at the farthest corner of the lawn, on the edge of the woods that lined the river. She paused, and looked back at the house. Smoke was beginning to curl from a couple of the tall chimneys. John followed her gaze, vaguely thinking that Violet must have lit some of the fires. He hoped that Sherlock had at least thought to put a match to the logs in their bedroom; he’d be freezing up there before long. 

“The problem is… the dates were wrong, John. It, um…” Mary shut her eyes tightly, seeming unable to look him in the eye. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’ve had it confirmed now. You see…”

He stared at her, a sick rolling sensation in his stomach. He knew what she was about to say, and couldn’t even begin to start processing it. Mary squared her shoulders, steeling herself to face his reaction.

“You see, John… Caroline. She’s yours.”

***

 

(No. No. Fucking NO!)

John plunged on through the trees, leaving Mary standing on the edge of the lawn. She made no attempt to follow him, her eyes wide and full of tears as she watched him go. His mind was full of noise and confusion, and he was still reeling at the words. 

(How can I believe a fucking thing she says? But why the fuck would she do this? She wouldn’t bother coming here and lying to me just to torment me. Not when there’s nothing in it for her. She doesn’t work like that. Oh, god. Caroline. 

Caroline. 

Unbidden, images of a small girl swam up to the surface of his mind. _Dark blue eyes_. 

He dimly realised that he had come to a halt, bent over and leaning against the trunk of a huge bare oak. The rough bark was freezing under his bare palm. The sweat pouring down his face felt strange against his hot skin, cooling instantly in the frigid air. He felt almost giddy, light-headed and sick as he slowly folded down onto his knees against the tree. The woods were almost silent, but the tiny distant sounds of birds’ wings and the flow of the river were oddly magnified in his ears, along with the incessant pounding of his heart. The air was biting, so cold that John was having trouble inhaling it; his choppy breath was loud in his ears. He tried to focus on his hands, which were now clasped around his knees. For some reason the skin of his hands and wrists was prickling sharply, the sensation tight and itching. 

(I need him. I need to hold on to his wrists and I need him to breathe with me, like before.)

But without looking up, he knew that the woods were empty. Mary hadn’t followed him; was probably still standing back on the lawn and wondering what to do. Oh, Christ. Christ! What happens now? 

The sick thumping of his heart continued for what seemed like hours as John attempted to focus only on what was in front of him. His own hands, clamped tightly on his knees. 

The light filtering through the branches of the tall trees, dappling the heavy snow that coated the uneven ground. The harsh call of some crows in a distant bush. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, trying desperately to ground himself in his surroundings. He ached for Sherlock, for the steady pressure of his hands and the reassurance of his voice. 

(This is what we do, isn’t it? You and I. When everything is awful.)

But this time, the thought of Sherlock send his pulse skittering dangerously again. Because hadn’t he told Sherlock that he was merely getting rid of Mary? Sherlock, who was angry and hurt, who had hurled those staggering accusations at him. What was he going to think when he heard the news? What would he do? 

John couldn’t even begin to start processing the news. The enormity of it kept striking him, over and over. He felt buffeted by Mary’s halting words, like a man dashed against the rocks. He bit his lip hard, and forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose, even as his lungs protested at the effort. Hold for two. Exhale. 

He knew the panic was receding when he began to become more aware of the cold seeping into his body. The snow under his knees had melted slightly, soaking the knees of his trousers. The chilled sweat on his body was icy now, the nape of his neck soaked and prickly. After a couple of false starts, he shakily got to his feet; clutching one of the lower branches of the oak for balance. 

Before he was quite ready to get moving, however, he heard the sound of birds being disturbed and the rustling of fir branches. A low whinnying sound followed, followed by a couple of loud snorts. Peering around the edge of the trunk as he wiped his damp upper lip, John stared through the dark outlines of the trees. From around a thicket of firs and bilberry bushes, a familiar mottled piebald appeared, carefully led by Griz Antonelli who was picking her way along the path. She was thickly muffled from the cold, her heavy hooded parka covering her upper body and most of her head. Three recently dead rabbits dangled from the hand that wasn’t holding the horses rein. John didn’t think that he could face seeing or talking to anyone just yet, but it was too late to hide around a tree. Griz pushed back her hood a little, revealing her close-cropped dark hair and furrowed eyebrows. 

“Doctor Watson! You alright?” she asked, lengthening her stride as she approached. She came to a halt perhaps ten feet away, taking in his snow-covered legs and the way he was hanging on to the branch. 

John began to feel the first flush of embarrassment, and wiped his hand across his cold damp face. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Um… yeah.” he managed.

Griz sized him up wordlessly, her strong jaw clenching a little as she regarded him. After a moment, she merely nodded and turned to her horse. At first, John felt relief when he thought she was going to continue on her way; but she didn’t mount the piebald. She opened one of the stained canvas saddlebags and tucked the rabbits inside carefully, before turning back to him. 

“This is Charlie. Come and say hello,” she ordered, looking at him expectantly. Her voice was a little hoarse, and as John forced himself to move towards the animal he wondered if this was because she didn’t use it much.

“Never been round horses much.” He managed, stepping cautiously towards the handsome beast. “I’ve always been a city boy.”

Charlie ignored him patiently, his breath roiling white through the still air as he stared ahead down the path. Griz patted him, running her hand down his shining flank and picking a stray pine twig from his long black tail. John could feel the warmth radiating from the horses body, and after a moment he risked taking a step closer; reaching out to press his cold hand against the long black and white neck. Charlie snorted loudly, making him jump a little. 

“Don’t worry.” Griz said quietly, nudging him back towards the horses head. “He’s just saying hello.” 

John swallowed hard, watching the horse slowly turning to face him. Charlie’s eyes were dark and liquid as he looked down at him. When John risked touching his pale velvety nose, he dipped into the caress; ears flickering. He stood there for a couple of long minutes, trailing his hand down the length of the horses face and stroking his warm nose. The movement was oddly grounding, and he felt himself mirroring the creature’s breath after a while, slow and steady. In a gradual smooth movement, Charlie raised his head and then slipped it over John’s shoulder; drawing him closer under his neck. 

“I feel a bit as if he’s giving me a hug.” John murmured, with a weak smile towards Griz. 

“Maybe he thinks you need one.” she replied, matter-of-factly as she rummaged through her pockets for something. She caught his eye briefly as she extracted a slightly grubby handful of sugar lumps. “He’s a clever lad.”

John almost managed a small laugh, pressing his cold hands against the horses’ warm shoulder; feeling the strong muscle beneath the smooth glossy coat. He accepted a couple of the sugar lumps from Griz, holding one out for Charlie who lipped it delicately from his palm.

“You have the other one.” Griz instructed him. “It’ll help.”

He looked at her sharply, stepping back a little. She held his gaze evenly for a long moment before turning away; moving around to the other side of Charlie’s head. There had been a glimpse of understanding in her eyes that he couldn’t quite fathom. 

She took a loose hold of the rein, and began to lead him slowly down the path towards the estate. John slipped the white cube into his mouth, letting it melt slowly on his tongue. 

“He’ll need a good rub down and some warm mash when we get into the stables.” Griz remarked after a minute during which they slowly wended their way through the shadowy woods. “You can come help, if you want.”

John made a vague, non-committal sound, keeping his eyes on the brightening light that streamed through the edge of the woods. His mind felt much clearer now, but his pulse still thrummed uncomfortably fast. He had little idea of what he should do now. He had no idea where Mary might have gotten to – whether she might have gone back to the house, or was still waiting patiently for him on the lawns. Either option made him feel anxious, but the idea that she might be breaking the news to Sherlock before he had a chance – that made him feel positively panicked again. What conclusions would Sherlock come to, without John there to reassure him? John had no illusions left about how Mary felt about Sherlock. Even before they had broken up, her resentment had been clear. She had known just how often John’s thoughts strayed back to Baker Street, even after he returned to their house at Crouch End. 

He carefully pushed back any thought of the baby. That was a box he could open in a little while, although strange flickers of excitement and dread threatened to overwhelm him when her name came to his mind. Right now, he needed to make some things very clear to Sherlock: that no matter what the situation was, John was going nowhere. It wasn’t as if Mary had shown any sign of wanting him back, even if by some ridiculous miracle he would have been willing to go with her. 

The east lawns were empty, and John spied a neat set of footprints that led in a neat, straight line back towards the house. She clearly hadn’t hung around, he noted absently.  
There was no sign of her wandering or pacing at the edge of the woods. She had remained where he left her, then turned and walked away. He gave a humourless, thin smile and sped up; his feet slipping slightly in his too-large boots. 

***

He left Griz at the kitchen gardens, and watched her make her way along the drive towards the stables. She didn’t say anything more to him, merely jerking her head at him in a gruff farewell before leading the horse briskly along the disturbed snow of the wide driveway. He watched them go, taking a deep breath and rallying his thoughts. 

(Right. First things first. Go and find him and damn well talk him down.)

As he walked towards it, he noticed the kitchen door was ajar. This struck him as slightly odd, and he pushed the door wider the room was entirely deserted. A kettle was boiling furiously on the stove, whistling shrilly and surrounded by droplets of scattered water on the dark iron. He paused to turn off the heat and lifted the kettle off the hob to one side. 

A couple of cups lay on the table, one of them toppled over in its saucer. A pair of oven gloves lay on the floor, knocked from where they had hung on their usual peg. He stooped and picked them up, draping them over the back of one of the chairs. He reached out and righted the cup. 

(Stop fucking procrastinating. Go and find him. And if Mary’s with him, damn well tell her to fuck off and talk to you when you’re back in London.) 

There were no signs of life in the drawing room, although the fire had been lit. Patrick’s painting had been uncovered, a jar of clean water sitting on the small table next to his easel. Violet’s silver monogrammed cigarette case lay open on the low ottoman, waiting to be refilled from a carved ivory box there. 

The house was so quiet, it was beginning to rattle John’s nerves. He had been unable to tell if Mary’s small footprints had led into the house; they had vanished into the mess of disturbed snow on the driveway. He had half-expected to hear raised voices, the sound of bitter argument between Sherlock and Mary. Or perhaps Violet cajoling with Sherlock, trying to persuade him out of sulking in his room. 

He stopped dead as he passed Patrick’s room, which he had distractedly glanced into as he passed. It was a large, sparsely furnished room with dark red hangings and ill-lit by the tall narrow windows. John almost didn’t notice the dark tangle of Patrick’s hair or his outstretched hand. He almost didn’t hear the awful, soft wet noises he was making, audible only because of the utter silence of the house. 

“Jesus!” John flung the door open and dropped to his knees next to Patrick; hands flying out to the dark patch that was spreading sickeningly along the side of his thin grey sweater. Patrick’s face was contorted with pain, fading to an ashy pallor. John cautiously pulled at the hem of his sweater and then at his shirt, inhaling sharply at the small deep wound beneath his ribs. He clamped one palm down over the welling blood at once, his other hand reaching out blindly to search for something to staunch the flow. “Patrick, mate. Can you talk to me?”

Patrick gasped softly at the pressure John placed on the wound, his tightly shut eyes flickering open. He stared, wide-eyed at the ceiling, his mouth twisting in pain. He took several shallow breaths through his nose, his left hand scrabbling for John’s forearm. 

“Patrick. Calm down. I promise I’m going to take care of you.” 

“Jo-John!” Patrick wheezed. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop-“

John stared at him, horror mounting at the pain and terror in Patrick’s face. His heart pounded in his chest, although his hands worked automatically; folding and pressing a white linen shirt against Patrick’s side. It stained and soaked through immediately, turning a deep and ghastly shade of red. 

Patrick’s indigo eyes were beseeching as he held weakly onto John’s forearm. John wanted to tell him to stop talking, to save his strength. He didn’t want to hear what Patrick was about to say. 

“I-ah! Couldn’t… stop them. Forgive me, John… he’s- he’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, just to let you know I am taking part in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and I'm offering Sherlock, Harry Potter and Check Please! fics to support some amazing charities. Bidding runs from the 12-19 Jan 2017. If you're not interested, I'd still really appreciate it if you could spread the word on Tumblr - details on my blog :)
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